


Worlds Apart

by sherlollymouse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlollymouse/pseuds/sherlollymouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a motorcycle accident, Sherlock wakes to find himself in a world where no one has ever heard of Molly Hooper. Meanwhile, injured and alone, Molly must brave a foreign world unlike anything she's ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going to Sleep

         The warmth of the sun blanketing his face that early morning as he stepped out of the stuffy Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes continued his conversation with the detectives he’d just finished working with. “At least you’re smart enough to listen to me.” he mused, smiling smugly to himself.

“Yeah, well, if you weren’t right --”

“But, I was.” He interrupted Greg Lestrade. Sally Donovon, however, was more combative.

“But if you weren’t right, we could have all lost our job.”

“Please! Maybe you, Sally, but my employments rather secure, thank you.”

“Yeah, well, it was a lucky guess.” Lestrade mumbled. As usual, Sherlock’s behavior had nearly cost them the case and left him exasperated and exhausted.

“There was no luck about it.” The consulting detective turned, flaring out his signature Belstaff, only to be greeted with a giggle from the quiet pathologist, Molly Hooper, who’d been lagging behind.

“You guess all the time, Sherlock. Them pointing out the high risk you took is not a bad thing. You should really be more aware of your effect on the people who care about you.” Her smile was genuine, but tight.

“I am aware of my --”

“If you were,” she cut him off. “You would say ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘thank you’ more often. Lestrade needs your help, but he doesn’t have to put his job on the line. Be more gracious.” For a moment, he prepared to argue with her, but thought better of it.

“I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time, Lestrade.” He huffed and it was received by only a shocked nod.

“What about me?” Sally asked.

“I’m sorry your hair got caught in the car window.” He said flatly and turned, walking away.

“Sorry, Sally.” Molly whispered. “I tried.”

“No, it’s alright,” crossing her arms and raising her voice. “You can’t expect an animal to have proper manners, now can you?” With that, she returned to the building.

“How’d you do that?” Greg asked, stopping Molly before she ran after Sherlock.

“Do what?” Molly scrunched up her face, taking a moment to fix her ponytail.

“Get him to say ‘sorry’.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he leaned in. “You know as well as anyone he doesn’t have much tact.”

“Yes, but he was taught manners. It’s reasonable to expect him to use them, at least among friends.” Her face twisted more as she fretted over her hair. “Besides, someone has to remind him. Otherwise, he might forget he has friends.” Greg smiled at that and he and Molly shared a hug goodbye before she hurried off to stop Sherlock.

“What are you doing?” She inquired, jogging up behind him.

“Getting a cab.” Preparing to raise his arm, Sherlock passed her a questioning glance.

“No,” Calmly, she wrapped her fingers around his elbow. “we have to return the motorbike you…‘borrowed’.” It had clearly made her a bit uncomfortable that he’d convinced a couple to let them take their bike, but she’d relented given the circumstances.

“It’s fine where it is.” Sherlock gestured to its place in the carpark across the street.

“No, it isn’t.” Though she was insistent, Sherlock thought he could have easily talked her out of it, but he knew he was wrong about that and she was right. It was really very nice how decisive she was… how unwilling to be manipulated she’d become. There was no will in him to fight something simple and any reason he could think of wouldn’t have been enough of an argument to stop her. So, with a sigh and play at being a little put out, Sherlock allowed her to take his hand and lead him across the road.

“You’re coming?” He asked, accepting the first helmet she passed him and seeing her pick up the second.

“Of course.” He watched as her smile became obscured by the bright yellow helmet. Honestly, it fit Molly’s personality well. “If I don’t you might not return it.”

“You don’t trust me?” As he put on some gloves,he wondered if she could tell he was watching her through his visor.

“Of course, Sherlock.” She assured him, moving back so he could take his seat and securing herself behind him. “But, I only trust you when I can.” She whispered as she placed her chin on his shoulder and exchanged one last smile with him before he started up the bike.

              Molly would be lying if she didn’t admit that a big part of the reason she was on the bike with him was that she really enjoyed being close enough to feel his body heat and smell his cologne. She’d always been a physically affectionate person, though she didn’t feel that way with everyone she cared for, it was nice to be able to just touch Sherlock this way. They weren’t directing one another or pulling one another;they were just being close - physically close. One of the best parts was that, even through the noise of the bike,helmet and clothing, if she strained, she swore she could hear his heartbeat, particularly at stop signs and lights.

             Maybe she was just lapping up the only physical affection she was liable to receive from him… and he wasn’t even holding her back. As she felt his fingers brush hers for a moment, she remembered the night before his fall and smiled to herself. Eyes closed, she allowed herself to wallow in this return of affection, until he withdrew and they were off again.

  
               Sighing to herself, she gave herself a moment to think about what him taking her hand,meant, but didn’t allow herself to dwell; after all, that could get a girl in trouble. As much as she loved him and as much as it still hurt, thinking for a moment that he might ever one day look her in the eyes and say he loved her and wanted her would only drive her mad. It simply wasn’t meant to be and she was alright with that… most of the time. But, Sherlock's very scent could destroy a woman's soul.

  
                It was nice to finally be herself around him without hearing herself turn into a giggly school girl. Perhaps, that was the intimacy she was to find with Sherlock; the inherent intimacy of being able to fully be yourself with someone. There was no need for romantic love between them when platonic was just as intimate and, arguably, profound. Why pursue a relationship with anyone whose presence didn’t help you become a better person and learn something about yourself and the world around you?

  
               This is what she had missed in secondary school and overlooked in uni. There was a drawing in her to make any relationship she had with a man physical and, although she’d moved past that after school, it took her relationship with Sherlock to acknowledge that. Something about how it’d progressed was like a mirror onto herself and it’d been hard at first… sometimes it still was, but, she was just grateful to be experiencing this relationship. Sherlock was so guarded, not many ever entered and stayed within his inner circle, but, here she was, with her arms around him. It was a privilege to be counted among his friends.

  
                Sherlock wasn’t sure why he had reached down to his chest and rubbed her hand at the last stop sign. He told himself he’d thought he felt her slipping and was just checking, but he knew better. He shouldn’t have moved his hand from its place wrapped around the handlebar. Being this close to Molly felt vulnerable but right to him. Knowing she trusted him this much was a bit humbling. There was a reason his front was so arrogant and tactless; it kept his social anxieties at bay.

  
                Maybe he was going too fast, maybe he was distracted or maybe the police were right and it wasn’t his fault at all. Either way, his last thought had been of what he must have done wrong. That he should have observed something. After all, it was his job; his great talent and livelihood, how could he have failed now? Particularly considering that Molly was with him. That both embarrassed him and filled him with guilt. How could he be so stupid? How could he not see the car?

  
                He had no concept of time, but whenever his eyes would flutter open, he’d glance around for her. He had to find her, had to see her, she just had to be ok. It was a difficult task, but he forced himself to project, calling out her name whenever he had the chance. With every ounce of will he had, he made sure to shout her name when he saw the flashing lights of the ambulance.

“Molly!” He croaked as loud as he could. “Molly!”

“Sir, please don’t shout. Can you focus?” The paramedic had gotten on his knees beside him and was shining an unforgiving light into his eyes.

“Molly!”

“Sir, what are saying?” Panic gripped him for a moment and had to calm himself quickly.

“Molly.” He choked, looking the man in the eye. “Molly Hooper.”

“Molly?” Relieved, Sherlock nodded with all the power he could muster.

“Was she on the bike with you?” Again, as hard as he could nod, he did. “Ok. Stop moving now, sir. We’re going to transport you now, ok?” With the command not to move, Sherlock had no other way to respond but a long groan. Knowing they knew she was out there, Sherlock gave in and allowed himself to drift back into unconsciousness. She couldn’t have been far from him, he could only hope she was alive and in his current state, he was of no use to her, so recharge and heal he must, so he relented to his body's call for sleep.  
           

           The medics were insistent, though. Why wouldn’t they let him sleep? Why all the questions? They should be looking for her? Why was he in the ambulance? Was she going to follow? Did she have her own team? She must, she had to. She just couldn’t be gone. If she were gone it’d be his fault. No, no, she had to be ok.  
             

           She must be traveling in her ambulance. Yes, yes, he assured himself. Finally allowed to drift off, he didn’t remember anything after that thought.


	2. Molly Who?

                  It sounded a bit like rushing water and felt a lot like coming up for a breath after a deep dive. It carried the same panic and he worried if, upon opening his eyes, he’d find himself in open water somewhere. Once it registered he wasn’t wet and his eyes could focus, though, he realized where he was and the memory of the bike ride came back to him. He could feel her arms around him again, the clamminess of the helmet and the wind around his body.

  
                He could feel himself hit the concrete and the pain flow him again, but all his thoughts were of her. Where was she? Did she survive? If he lived and seemed to fare well, maybe she did, too. She must be all right, she just had to be. He couldn’t even think about what would happen to him if she were gone. If he could never ask for her help again or ever even talk to her again, he wasn’t sure if he could function. She just had to ok. The machines around him sped up as he became more aware of his surroundings. It wasn’t easy for him to calm himself and he knew his heart rate would stay elevated until he saw her.

  
                 Everything hurt. His body, his soul, his heart. He had to find out about her.  
His arm felt heavy and it pained him to lift it, but he had to hit the red button beside his bed. Repeatedly, he pounded at it, crying out he did, bidding someone come in and answer his questions. Begging someone to come in and put his broken body and aching heart at ease.

“Mr. Holmes?” A voice called and he looked up to see a nurse finally entering the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Where’s Molly?” Sherlock’s voice was drier than he realized and he hoarsely called out to the nurse.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes?” The nurse asked, tilting his blonde head closer to the detective.

“Molly Hooper.” Sherlock spoke slower this time, emphasizing every syllable of the name. “Where is she?”

“I’m not sure where… Molly Hooper?” Sherlock nodded in response. “Yes, I’m not sure, but I can check the waiting room or… if you have a number…”

“No, she was on the bike with me.” Pulling himself up, he lapsed into a coughing fit, but the nurse quickly responded with a cup of tap water from the bathroom sink.

“I’ll bring you a pitcher of purified water, sir, but this will clear your throat for now.” The nurse explained, allowing Sherlock some time to moisten his mouth and throat before asking again. “Now, this Molly Hooper?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “She was on the bike with me. I need to know how she is.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I wasn’t told that --”

“I don’t care what you were told, I care how Molly is, now, please, go find out where she is.” He was never much for patience, but with his entire body hurting and his worry for Molly’s well being, it had shortened considerably. He demanded an answer and wouldn’t stand for being denied one.

               The longer he laid there, the more he raged. At one point, a doctor had walked in, wanting to tell him about his injuries and status and he wouldn’t hear any of it. “Where is Molly Hooper?” He asked angrily through gritted teeth, but no matter how much he persisted, he was met with nothing but confusion and it only fueled his turmoil. By the time they allowed him visitors, he’d completely shut down. Staring off out the window, he didn’t acknowledge John Watson coming in and greeting him at first, leaving them to sit in silence for an extended period of time.

                John didn’t mind though, he had been flatmates with this unusual man, so he made himself comfortable, flipping through a newspaper before getting his hands on his friends file.

  
“Well, you got really banged up.” John spoke, hoping to engage Sherlock. “Broken leg, broken ribs, some bad road rash…. bit lucky, though. It could have easily been a lot worse.”

“I don’t care.” The man barely muttered.

“Well, I do, Sherlock. You’re my friend.” Sherlock shut his eyes tight, before turning to John and fixing them on him.

“They won’t tell me anything about Molly. They’re acting as though she doesn’t even exist.”

“Right. They did say you kept asking about a woman. Someone was on the bike with you?” Sherlock used the bed buttons to sit up properly, wincing a bit at the pain he now knew was his ribs.

“Yes, Molly Hooper. The pathologist.” John’s eyes darted around in his head, searching his memory. “Molly Hooper, John. Our friend. She was at your wedding, she did my damn piss test when you brought me off that case. Molly bloody Hooper, John.” Sherlock shouted, he couldn’t understand why John would be doing this to him, of all people, but the doctor only shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I… “ Sherlock sighed and turned away. “I don’t know a Molly Hooper, Sherlock, I don’t know what to tell you. Was she client? Did she hire you for a case?”

“NO, JOHN! My god, she’s one of our very best friends. She helped me fake my death three years ago. How can you not remember Molly Hooper?”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t know a Molly Hooper.”

“Is Mycroft behind this? Did he ask you to deny her existence for some asinine reason?”

“No, Sherlock. Mycroft hasn’t even stopped by yet.”

“Course not, but better things to do what with running the world and all. Meanwhile, everyone around me is insisting one of the--” Sherlock stopped himself, apparently, his tolerance for his pain medication had waned.

“One of the what, Sherlock?” John urged him on.

“Nevermind.” The detective turned away again.

“No,you said this woman helped you faked your death and was at my wedding. Was she--- did you two?” Fidgeting in his seat, he leaned forward and licked his lips. “Was she your date?”

“No, she came with her fiance at the time… Tom.” His response was monotone; lacking the passion he’d had just moments ago.

“Oh, so is Hooper her married name or--”

“No! She never married him, she had broken up with him before you dragged me into piss in a cup. She slapped me, three times, right in front of you. She helped us solve those clues we got from Moriarty, she’s been a part of your life for as long as we’ve known each other.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Molly Hooper.”

“Leave.” Sherlock was through with this. No more of these games; he simply wouldn’t play them. “And tell Mycroft I need to speak to him.”  
 

           Deflated and irritated, John slipped out into the hall and made a phone call.

            Later that day, Greg Lestrade was finally able to make the time in check in on John and Sherlock. It wasn’t a surprise to run into John first, but he’d hoped that he would be sitting in the room with their friend.  
 

“He kicked me out.” John explained. “Apparently, he remembers some mysterious woman that was on the bike with him.”

“Really? Who?” It was certainly like Sherlock to be moody, so Lestrade was more interested the reason.

“He said her name was Molly, I think. Very insistent that she was in the accident with him. He’s outraged no one will tell him how she is. Thinks everyone's lying.” He explained to Greg, leading him up the stairs and down the hall. “Luckily he has a broken leg this time. Bit harder to just run off.”

“Was she a client or something?” Much like everyone else, it was the first assumption anyone would make when discussing Sherlock and a woman.

“Uh, no. Insists they’ve been friends for years. Even said she was at my wedding.” John shrugged, stopping just short of the door.

“You don’t think he and this Molly --”

“No, I asked. Not a girlfriend.” John let out a deep sigh, before Lestrade extended his hand and gestured toward the door.

“This the room?” He asked, and John gave an affirmative; turning to open the door. They greeted Sherlock, but again, he refused to face them, staring out his window deep in thought. It was all he seem to do..

“So, uh…. how is he?” Lestrade whispered to John.

“I’m fine.” Speaking up, through gritted teeth, Sherlock still refused to turn his head.

“Sherlock, you really need to talk to your doctors. This is getting out of hand. You need to talk to someone.” His friend, John plead.

“I’ll talk to Molly. Find me Molly.”

“Sherlock….”

“I know my own name, John. What I don’t know is why everyone is being so obtuse. Where is Molly?” Finally turning to face them, they were a bit overwhelmed with his insistence and both held back for a moment. “What?”

“Sherlock, one of your injuries was a head injury. You hit your head really hard, you’re concussed.” John explained and Sherlock merely shrugged him off.

“So?”

“So? Sherlock, this is probably a false memory. You’re remembering some tourist you sped past or a member of your homeless network.”

“No, I’m not , John. Molly is not a false memory or any other side effect of a brain injury you wish to concoct. Molly is real and Molly was on the bike with me.”

“Wait.” Against his better judgement, Lestrade chose to intervene. “If this Molly woman was on the bike with you, she was probably injured, too. She could be wandering around with amnesia or something.” Sherlock could tell he was placating him, but allowed him to continue talking.

“Would you be able to describe her to sketch artist?”

“If you’re going to actually look for her.” He insisted.

“Of course.” Lestrade said, knowing he was going to regret it.

“Then, bring your least annoying sketch artist in and we can start actually doing something productive rather than sitting around questioning my sanity.”

 

* * *

              Alone in his room, again, Sherlock stared at the ceiling. There were no distractions from his troubles, but he did have choices. If it wasn’t Molly he was fretting over, he was agonizing over his immobility and the furious itching beneath his cast. By the time the sketch artist Lestrade sent over arrived, he welcomed the reprieve of her company, though, in his own fashion.

“Mr. Holmes,” She knocked, cheerfully greeting him. “I’ve come to help, I’m Pauline.” Without hesitation, he gave her a half smile and a friendly grunt as a welcome. “Now,” Pauline passed some laminated papers over to Sherlock as she set up. There were options for noses, eyes and mouths and he casually set them aside. In hindsight, it probably would have done him better to reference them, but he continued attempting to describe her without pictorial assistance. They’d been at it for ages before, exhausted, frustrated, and dripping sweat, Pauline finally turned her sketchbook in his direction and asked, one last time. “How’s this?”

“That’s Molly.” He responded, breathlessly. It was a huge relief to see her face again and he was a bit overcome. “So, you’ll be putting that out?”

“If it's her, than, of course, we will.” The smile she gave was more relief than anything. “Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes. We’ll find her.” As the door clicked behind her, he allowed himself a few, silent tears before swallowing them down again.


	3. Where Molly Is

                   The female nurses annoying giggle was really beginning to get to Sherlock. He was really done with this obnoxious woman.

“Nu,uh, uh, Mr. Holmes. Your room's this way, silly.” Never had an American accent threatened to give him a migraine, he was expecting to taste blood any moment now, considering the force with which he’d been biting his tongue.

“Ah, well, you know, Jenny.” He casually knocked on his skull with his fist. “This darn head injury just gets me so mixed up sometimes.” Sherlock attempted to meet her grating enthusiasm.

“Oh, poor dear.” She clicked her tongue as she turned him around. “Well, I know what’ll make you feel better.”

“What’s that, Jenny?” If nothing else, he enjoyed that she was too stupid to realize he was mocking her.

“Your family just came to see you!” The wheelchair shook a bit as she hopped with excitement.

“Oh, goody!” Shading his eyes as she rolled him down the corridor, he let out a quiet sigh.

“Yup, they just told me at the desk.” Yes, the desk. Everyday he got closer to making it out the front door when she would stop and everyday she’d call him ‘silly’ or a ‘big silly’ and drag him back to his room while she hummed some random show tune he knew she didn’t know was a show tune. Today it was ‘I Enjoy Being a Girl’ and he knew this woman had never seen ‘Flower Drum Song’. Yesterday it was “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” and she had never seen ‘The Sound of Music’, he’d asked. At the very least, she was otherwise quiet and, if he could manage to drown the humming out, it was a pleasant little ride. After four days, though, he was ready to go home but, the broken leg posed a huge issue of him getting in and out of his flat. Sometimes, he’d think about how he could get out and how he would get himself up and down the stairs, attempting to devise a plan of some sort. The longer he had this cast on, the more frustrated he got. It would be two more months before they took it off and then his leg would be weak, but at least he would have more freedom of movement. Leaving Molly in the wind that long, though, was unacceptable to him, simply put. There was no way he was going to do that. If Mycroft had his way, Sherlock would stay put until then, staying in the hospital until he not only had the cast removed but could walk properly. That wasn’t going to happen.

  
             If only this ridiculous woman would keep her head turned just a little longer while she chattered at the nurses station… maybe the hit on his own head was affecting his thinking on this. After all, it should be easier for him to slip out, the big issue to him was getting out with a chair. The first day he could move, they’d caught him and had been careful not to leave abandoned chairs around him any more. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself and it was driving him mad.

  
            As they got closer to his room, he agonized over seeing his parents again. A therapist might suggest that the distance he created, both physically and emotionally, was too much for them to foster a healthy relationship, but he was happy with it. Besides, he found them overwhelming at times, what with his mother’s incessant yammering about whatever little thing she found interesting in her mundane life that week.

  
“Here we are!” Jenny sang out, turning into his hospital room. Before she could even remove her hands from the bars, Sherlock’s mother had wrapped her son in her arms. As his mom smashed her moist lips against his cheek, he wasn’t certain if he was left with the worse of two evils or not.

“Oh, Sherlock, my dear boy.” Mother Holmes had finally pulled away. “Look at you, poor thing. Oh... does it hurt, love?” She asked, caressing his leg cast.

“I’m fine, mummy.” He grimaced, maintaining that level of politeness he was expected to extend to his mother. One last kiss on the cheek and a fuss over a patch of road rash, and she finally stepped back.

“Mikey, why don’t you and father help Sherlock into bed.” It wasn’t a question, but the bored looking Mycroft, who had quarantined himself into his own corner, flipping through a new magazine, insisted on arguing.

“It’s Mycroft, mummy, you should remember… you’re the one that named me.” She huffed in his direction and he met her scolding eyes. “They have people employed here with the exact job description you describe, I don’t see why you can’t just call the nurse back.”

“She can’t lift him herself.” She stomped.

“Then she’ll call an aid.” Mycroft insisted.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake” muttered the patient before shouting, “I’m fine!” Pouting a bit at his insistence, Mother Holmes retook her seat next to her husband.

“I don’t understand why you were even on that motorbike, Sherlock, you know how anxious you make me. I’ve been sick with worry over you since you moved to London. I don’t know why you insisted on moving out here and Mikey --”

“Mycroft.”

“-- well, he’s no help. He all but refuses to keep on eye on you and now.” He was always amazed at how long his mother could talk, when properly worked up, between breaths. While Sherlock would never say it out loud, it always worried him, so hearing her deep inhale, now, relaxed him. “with this Mindy business --”

“Molly.” It was Sherlock's turn to correct.

“-- Molly business, well, I’m think you should come home for awhile.”

“Mother.”

“No, just until you are healed. You shouldn’t be a hospital two months and with your leg, you can’t go up to your flat. Now, I really think you should come home.”

“Mother, “To Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft chimed in before he could. “I think this is something we should let Sherlock decide. Besides, considering his condition, I’m not sure sleeping on a sofa for eight weeks will aid in his healing. Do you plan to move one of the heavy, oak bed downstairs, bring his from Baker Street or buy a new one?” The elder Holmes brother finally looked up. “Really, mother. As long as he isn’t refusing necessary medical aid, I really don’t think we should intervene here.”

“Well, what do you think?” She turned to her husband, but before he could finish opening his mouth, she continued on. “No, no, I agree. We should just… let him be.” With a sad, concerned look, she leaned over and took her youngest son’s hand, maintaining his gaze. “I just worry about you so, dear. You know I love you.”

“Yes, mummy, I know you love me.” He returned her smiled and she gave his arm a pat before withdrawing.

“So... this Molly… she’s not real?” The mother asked them both.

“It would appear that way.” Mycroft offered, but Sherlock grumbled.

“She is real. I don’t understand why you all don’t believe me, you all know her!” His shout echoed off the walls, but Mycroft only sighed.

“Why don’t you tell us about her, dear.” The mother insisted.

“What’s there to tell?” Sherlock sputtered. “She’s a pathologist who helps me with my cases. The lab here at Bart’s is effectively our domain.” He shrugged.

“Do you boys remember how I met your father?” Ignoring their loud protests, she proceeded to tell them the long, dull story that she loved to tell them about how she met their father. Sherlock was rather proud that it outlasted his brother, who stopped her after fifteen minutes.

“And then he took you on your first date in five years to a carnival.” Mycroft interrupted loudly.

“It was the circus, Mikey.” She sternly corrected.

“Forgive me, mother dear. Such a hard error to make.” The boys quietly exchanged a laugh. Without much fanfare, the parents dismissed themselves, heading off to lunch and a show before it got too late, they could stay around to long. Sherlock appreciated the ways in which their mother did try to respect him and his space. For all her faults, Sherlock was smart enough to know that she was simply concerned for his welfare and that, though annoying, was easily forgiven. As he wiped the saliva that her wet lips had left on his cheek, he looked over to his brother.

“I figured you’d be on their heels… running out of here like your feet were set ablaze.” Mycroft merely hummed in response as he rose from his chair.

“Well, I wanted to speak with you privately.” He explained.

“Then, by all means, speak.” All the time in the chair was overheating Sherlock a bit. It was easy to move around in the chair and his glutes felt uncomfortably warm as they began to numb. Mycroft used his umbrella to press the red nurse button before leaning over close to Sherlock.

“I think I know who Molly is.”


	4. Land of the Red Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up; while there isn't much violence to speak of, this chapter contains descriptions of Molly's wounds. I don't think its bad or too detailed, but that is not a trigger to me, so its hard for me to gage.

               Molly Hooper wasn’t sure if her pain or the scream she was sending out into the ether were what woke her, but the first thing she was conscious of was how much she hurt and the tears streaming down her face. Gently, she rolled herself over onto her back and realized that no one was coming to her aid. With even more care, she sat herself up and surveyed her surroundings through blurry eyes. At first, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her.

  
               The grass looked like the grass she knew, only it was softer and purple. The sky looked like the sky she knew, only it was all pink. Like that color she would see during sunset, but it was the entire sky. The field went on nearly as far as she could see, with a row of bizarre, red trees fencing it in on all sides. Bringing one arm up, to get the tears from her eyes, she gasped in pain. It was at that moment, she realized her arm was broken. Molly swore into the wind as she weighed her options and could only think of one option for now.  
Unfastening her bra and sliding her uninjured arm out was easy, it was getting it off the broken one that was a project. Finally retrieving the bra, she tossed it over her lap before using her good appendage to fix her mussed up hair and secure it into a high ponytail. This left room on her neck for the bra to set when she reconfigured it as a sling. Once she found water, she could clean and better evaluate her injuries. If necessary, she’d make a splint. Molly was thankful she’d gone to med school, but also kicking herself for never getting into survivalist type things. Instinct told her the basics, though. Find water, find food, find shelter.  
 

               Before picking herself up, she allowed one more brief crying jag, but quickly hardened her core to these emotions; this was no time for tears or self pity. If Molly expected to survive this, she would have to start walking and hope for water. She admired the trees. Tall, with large, draping and hanging leaves colored in shades of orange and red.There was no telling if she had a good sense of direction or not, so she decided to follow the tree line for a while.

                 By what she estimated to be the second mile, the aches she felt were getting to her. Road rash, most definitely bruised ribs, the broken arm and a myriad of cuts and bruises were definitely making this trek harder. Lucky for her, as the air hit her nose, she realized she could smell what she was looking for. It gave her the strength to carry on; knowing the water was close enough for the scent to reach her. Within another half mile, there it was. Beneath some odd looking trees that leaned over the body of water, shielding it from the harsh light of the sun.

  
                After tasting the liquid, to confirm it was water, she felt confident enough to strip bare and slowly lower her broken and scraped up body into the pool. Molly bit her lower lip as she tried to suppress a scream at the feeling of the water rushing into her wounds. It was a slight burning sensation, but she knew it was good. With her free hand, she rubbed at the every mark she could reach, hoping it would clean it out enough to ward off infection.

                It certainly wasn’t comfortable and, at some points, it was physically painful, but she pressed on. The last thing she needed was an infection. Being injured was more than enough given the circumstances. But that was when she felt it… really felt it. There on her thigh. It was bad… it was deep.Why hadn’t she felt it before? Maybe the distraction of the road rash and her arm was enough to keep her mind away from the awareness that she had this great wound; it was a type of defense mechanism.

  
With great care, she raised her leg, setting her ankle on the bank to properly triage her thigh.

“Oh, god.” Molly breathed. Whether she did post mortems or not, the appearance of her own flesh - sliced, grated and juicy with own her blood - wasn’t something she was completely prepared for. She swallowed down the byproduct of her uncharacteristic nausea and gently scrubbed at her wounds. Stopping at a twinge of pain, she adjusted her leg again, digging her heel on the bank and noticed the shard of glass in her calf.

“Shit.” The words were barely audible. She knew the skin had begun the healing process, and she’d be breaking the skin that was attempting to adhere itself to it. Before she pulled, she realized she may already be attracting aquatic predators with the dried blood in the water, fresh blood would be too risky. The only thing she could find was a bit of moss at the base of a tree that had rooted itself in the bank.

               Thankfully, though one of her arms were broken, the hand was still fully functional, so her injured arm held the moss and her leg still while the other was gently sliding out a shard of glass about two inches long. As fast as she could and as steadily as her shaky hands would allow her, she firmly placed the moss against her wound with all her force, relying on the absorption of the moss to soak up the blood.  
Worried that she had nothing to stitch her injuries up with, she prayed for them to stop bleeding soon so she could find or make a shelter. It would be a long night and she didn’t want to come this far only to bleed out the first night. There was no way she was going to give up that easily but her medical training wasn’t exactly the most helpful in an alien terrain.

  
                   For a long while she stood there; applying pressure as the rest of her body ached from the unequal weight distribution and other injuries that riddled her abused body. The water felt cleansing and calming, but she was growing tired and weak; ravaged by her trek that day. With what energy she had left, she climbed back ashore to scavenge and seek shelter for the night.

  
                   There wasn’t much to do… her search had acquired her thick leaves that she could use to bandage herself up and some berries that looked familiar and edible. The sedation of her stomach was enough, she thought, to possibly help her sleep. She also found a rock that seemed to speak to her.

                   At a loss, given the time of day, she decided that best was to climb a nearby tree and build a more formal shelter in the morning. The ascension was painful, bark scraping the little skin her clothing exposed, but finally, she secured a branch thick and sturdy enough to allow her safe refuge for the night.

  
                  It was that moment, when she finally felt she might be safe, that Molly allowed her mind to drift and focus on Sherlock Holmes. She wondered where he was and what he was doing, if he was safe… or even alive. Motorbike accidents were often dangerous. It was very hard to sleep with the images flashing in her mind of the corpses on her autopsy table; mangled and battered; heads cracked open like eggs... To distract herself, she spent some time with a nice size branch and her rock, sharpening it into a spear in the dark. The simple act of calming her breath was a feat, but finally, amongst tears in the darkness of the strange land she found herself in, Molly Hooper found the peace of sleep.


	5. Reason or Lies

“Don’t insult me, Mycroft.” Sherlock spat and flailed his arms, offended by his brother’s presumptuous theory.

  
“Brother, Dear.” Keeping his tone calm, the elder Holmes made an attempt to quell the anger boiling over in his brother. “I am simply saying stranger things have happened and what with your head injury ---”

“Well, your theory is wrong.” Sherlock shouted, fussing in his bed; throwing himself wildly onto his back and crossing his arms as he made a face. Much like an adult watching a toddler throw a tantrum, Mycroft could only sigh and roll his eyes. Perhaps the isolation and solitude were already wearing on his younger sibling; though that would be a surprise to him, even introverts and hermits are susceptible to cabin fever. The theft of free will can change a person and, though they both tried to separate themselves from that which made them the most human, they were still liable to fall victim to their ingrained nature at times.

“No one else knows this Molly Hooper, Sherlock. I am not sure what you would like me to tell you.” Licking his lips, Mycroft leaned forward his chair, closer to Sherlock. The sparse piece of furniture in the room was one of the lone pops of color in the barren room and the violin chair’s fabric was some sort of pastel, salmon, he believed. The only was the teal border about hip height on the walls. He hated leaving his brother in a place like this, given their history. “Tell me, how probable is it you would have a friend and John or I not know them?” Again, Sherlock adjusted. Sitting up this time, he commenced pothering with a bit of the hospital blanket fabric between his fingers, but his focus remained on the wall. Mycroft supposed he should be grateful he was seeing him in profile rather than the mass of black curls that were wanting for a wash, matted a bit from their natural grease and their prolonged position on the pillow.

“I have memories of her. Years worth of memories. I’m telling you that she is real.” It wasn’t very often the Holmes brothers would share mass amounts of emotions or wax romantically about loved ones, but Mycroft could read Sherlock’s honesty and pain.

“I’m not saying she’s a figment of your imagination. Merely, that, perhaps, you took the image of woman you found physically attractive and ---” As Sherlock moaned, Mycroft raised his voice above his, in order to be heard. “now, you have all these false memories of her being your friend.”

“I did see her before the accident, Mycroft, she was on the bike with be and I saw no one during the accident.” Sherlock released the blanket and moved instead to his right arm. The IV’s were beginning to making him itch a bit, so he gave them a ginger rub. “Just a swirl of asphalt, brick sidewalk and grass. I don’t even remember landing and I don’t remember the medics either.”

“That doesn’t mean that your mind didn’t take someone’s image to store and insert them into completely different memories.”

“Why don’t you believe me?” Sherlock bellowed, finally glancing up from the delicate project of alleviating the itch on his arm.

“I don’t disbelieve you, I just can’t reason how this person you claim you were so close to is remembered by no one else.” Mycroft stood and began gently pacing at the foot of Sherlock’s bed and fiddling with his signature umbrella. “Not even Lestrade, whom you claim was with the two of you and talked to her right before you got on the motorbike.” Stopping directly in his brothers line of sight for dramatic effect, he bounced the tip of his umbrella, gently off the ground, allowing the metallic click to permeate the air and keep his brothers attention.

“Lestrade’s not the one with the head injury, Sherlock. People don’t just forget other people that are so intertwined in their lives without their being some sort of reason.”

“Are you hiding her?” Mycroft drew back in surprise, completely thrown off kilter by his brothers paranoid assertion.

“I should say not.” He insisted, hoping only to keep his brother calm.

“Where is she?” Sherlock’s lips twisted with frustration as he strained, through his teeth, to ask his question.

“I assure you, Sherlock. I have not detained her and I am not lying when I say I do not know this woman you seem so very obsessed with.”

      Another heavy sigh from the elder brother, taking a moment to glance down at his shoes before continuing. “Please, Sherlock, I really think you need to let this phantom go. For your own good.”

“For my own good?” Sherlock scoffed, leaning back in the bed again. “When was the last time you were right about what was good for me, Mycroft?”

“I can name at least two times, brother dear, where you desperately needed my counsel and fought it.” His tone was very even as he spoke and twirled about his umbrella. “Or have you forgotten so soon?”

“Please, tell me.” Against his own ingrained advice, he challenged Mycroft, insisting on an answer.

“Castle Craig and, then, Betty Ford.” Neither brother spoke for several breaths. “Well, you would have been just as well without my help, though, wouldn’t you?” More silence neither of them wished to continue that conversation. Mycroft had made his point, afterall, no words needed to be spoken after that. It was simply a reminder of the darker times they’d weathered, given little other choice thanks to the bond of family.  
“I think it’d be best if you leave now.” Sherlock finally broke the cold quietness between them and Mycroft gave him a nod in agreement.  
“I believe you’re right. Can’t stay here all night tending to you.” He gave Sherlock a smug smile. “More pressing matters need attending to.” As he turned to leave, his younger brother stopped him, only a moment.

“Please, let me know when you find her.” Concerned as ever about his younger brother, he barely raised an eyebrow before nodding his final goodbye and disappearing out the door and from Sherlock’s view.

                   Maybe he enjoyed stewing; drowning in all the negative feelings his body could bring to the surface. Maybe the challenge was trying to keep his own head above water and not succumb to the overwhelming forces of his physical and emotional pain. Sherlock certainly was glad the physical was medicated with outstanding drugs and, if the tab was high enough, it dulled the emotional pain as well. Everyone was telling him his best option was to forget, but he couldn’t let Molly go, because everything inside of him was insistent that she existed and she wasn’t safe. He needed to save her and protect her. Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder, if one of them had just held on tighter to the other, maybe they would still be together. Stuck in this bed, there was only so much he could do.

  
                   Staring at the ceiling, he gripped at the sheets; clutching them with all his might; wincing at a bolt of pain in his leg. Turning the tabs would dull or even completely take away this pain, but he couldn’t think clearly like that. Breathing with his ribs was hard enough as it was, so he would give himself a break every now and then and turn up the dose. Not for long, though. Plans needed to be made, after all, and it was only pain.

  
                Sherlock couldn’t be sure if it was six minutes or sixty, but the gentle wrap on his door caught his attention. Expecting another doctor he may have to argue with, he wondering if that impulse was correct in seeing it was John and Greg Lestrade. He was in a mood these days; his friends seemed to notice as well, which must have been a feat considering his normal disposition. Sherlock gave them a half smile, not knowing whether he wanted them to stay with him or not. Company would be nice, but so would solitude right now. He detested nursing wounds outside his home; to have an audience simply made the situation more unbearable.

  
“How are you feeling today?” John asked, casually picking up his chart.

“I’ve been better.” His dry reply cued Lestrade to offer him a drink of water, which Sherlock graciously accepted as they awaited the good doctor's review of Sherlock’s files. “Anything of interest?” Sherlock plied, setting his glass to the side on his end table.

“Well,” John sighed, slapping the clipboard closed and replacing it. “They’re still concerned about your attitude. They’ve considered sending psych down here. How do you feel about that?”

“There’s no point to that,” Sherlock stretched, craning his neck out to give it a scratch. “I’ve told them there’s only one person who I’ll talk to; sending a psychiatrist down here will do nothing.” John and Greg exchanged looks of concern, Lestrade pursing his lips and John’s grew tense and quirked into a half smile. “What? Have you found her?” Sherlock blurted, alarmed, possibly worried it wasn’t good news given the accident.

“Well, that’s just it.” Lestrade swallowed. “There’s nothing.”

“Don’t give me that bunk, Mycroft was just suggesting she was a symptom of my being concussed.” Jolting a bit in his bed, he began manipulating his body and hand to better itch just inside his leg cast. “I swear, I think I’m allergic to this hospital, I’ve never itched so much in my life.” He growled.

“Yeah, well,” John approach,gently laying him back on his pillow. “You’re just getting restless and frustrated. It’s how your brain is dealing with the stress.”

“You mean, like inventing a woman.” His glare suggested a challenge, Sherlock was certain of what John and Lestrade had come to tell him at this point.

“We just can’t find her, Sherlock.” Obviously disappointed, John threw up his hands.

“I don’t understand.” As deep and throaty as Sherlock’s voice was, the slight crack in it as he spoke was obvious.

“There’s nothing to understand, we just can not find her.” The DI seemed to be pleading with him.

“Don’t you dare look at me like I’m mad, either of you!” Sherlock exclaimed from his bed. “You introduced me to her,” He insisted, glaring Lestrade down before channeling his rage back to John this time “she works in here, in St. Barts morgue for god sakes! Why are you claiming you don’t her?!”

“Because we don’t!” By now, Lestrade had lost his patience with him; shouting him down to silence him. “We just don’t.”

“Leave.” Sherlock demanded, coldly. “Both of you. I’m done with this. These games and lies.”

“But Sherlock, we are not ---”

“Leave.” From his bed, he stopped the pleading from his doctor friend to listen to reason or buy in to his lie, Sherlock wasn’t sure what.  
It didn’t surprise Sherlock that Lestrade, remembering times of long past of trying to get the youngest Holmes to go to rehab, didn’t bother to argue. Simply grumbled and threw up his arms in defeat before making his exit.

              John, however, hung back, running his hands on the back of the salmon colored violin chair before softly taking his seat. As their eyes met, he remain resolute in the face of Sherlock’s stern stare. For several moments, they sat in silence, holding each other stare and saying more than they could with words. Not wanting to press his luck, John proceeded carefully.

“Why are still here?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, because I don’t know why I don’t remember Molly.” He explained. “I’d like you to tell me all about her. I think that may help.” Sherlock seemed to consider this a moment before relenting and slowly beginning to detail all the memories he had of Molly Hooper. Surprising himself not long in by having to hold back tears and ignore the ache in his chest. Sherlock knew he was missing her and was worried about her condition, but he had no idea that he felt this strongly about her and it scared him.


	6. Unusual Animals

               As her eyes fluttered open that morning, Molly Hooper was grateful to be alive, but distraught by her new found environment. She supposed anyone would begrudge finding themselves in a foreign land against their will, but that didn’t make this any easier for her. The bark had scratched her up last night and she felt a little stiff, otherwise her sleep had actually been a very good one. Stretching, carefully, so as not to upset her balance or hurt her arm more, her ears caught some dull roars below her. Folding herself up, she used her grip on the branch she was laying on she pull her cheek to her foot, where it rested as she watched.

  
               Molly was by no means surprised to find life, in fact in many ways she was relieved, but these were not creatures with which she could properly communicate or even name. They were quadrupeds, low to the ground like a hippo and covered in a smooth and shiny looking pink skin. The best she could guess, judging by their skin, was that they were amphibians of some sort. Laying back against the tree, in the little niche of the large branch that cradled her, she placed her arm back in its makeshift sling and began working on the spear from last night again. In the daylight, it was far easier, but she did admire her handiwork as it didn’t appear that she’d been working in the dark at all; the edge was clear and just needed to be better defined.

             Below her, the odd creatures didn’t seem interested in any of the little noise she was making from her nest in the tree. Thinking back, she recalled that many animals segregate by gender; the females off together with their brood and the males wandering about, doing their own thing. This was why most experts feared the females of predatory species more in comparison to the males, though; the males were protecting nothing but themselves while the women were protecting and providing the next generation. Having something to actually live for made females far more dangerous to observe and interact with in the wild.

  
            Peeking back down, she wondered about the existence or nonexistence of gender in this realm and the basics of reproduction. The growth and development of life where she was must have some sort of lineal order to it. Perhaps that was just her scientific brain talking and looking for logic in an illogical situation and state of existence. Watching several play in the water; using their little trunks to spray each other like the elephants she knew back home, she smiled to herself a bit. The sad part was, she was going to try to kill one, indiscriminately, and pray that not only would they provide her protein but not poison her. Back home, a brightly colored frog traditionally meant they were poisonous; if these were also amphibians, like she thought, maybe pink was a warning color here.

  
            Swallowing hard as she continued to whittle at her new tool and weapon, she fought the urge to create any sort of system to choose her victim. Molly didn’t want to do this, with all of her, but it was a need that she had to fulfill. It felt very primal, perhaps because it was, pulling herself up the length of the tree branch, to get a better vantage point. Wincing a bit at the volt of pain flowing through her arm as she tested whether to use it to balance or throw, she opted to place her weight on that elbow and aim with her good arm. Unfortunately, this was a great struggle considering it was her dominate hand whose arm was broken.

  
             After finally maintaining a steady balance for what she deemed to be long enough, Molly drew back her spear and thrust it as hard as could at the closest pink amphibian to her. Hearing a screech, she wondered if her eyes had deceived her and she’d managed to impale the animal directly below her, but no, it was simply an alert. Responding promptly to the alert, the animals took off, thundering away on the awkward bodies and giving Molly’s red tree a might shake as they all retreated in unison. Leaving her with only the option to cling to branch better and swear into the bark, hoping not to further scratch herself up.

  
          They’d stood so close and stampeded with such force that, before long, she found herself slipping.

“Oh, god, no, please.” She pleaded into the wood, trying desperately to straddle the branch again; fighting through the pain of using muscles connected to broken. Molly wanted nothing more than to not be alone in that moment and her thoughts drifted to Sherlock. Not having to do all this alone would make it as alright as it possibly could be.

            When the world around her seemed to have gone silent again, she gently picked her head up and surveyed her environment carefully. Deciding it was safe, she carefully climbed down the tree and found a spot to relieve herself; she was positively bursting and had been afraid of urinating on herself during the stampede. Retrieving her spear was easy enough, but she really needed to build a splint for her arm this morning, she was certain she’d done more damage to it clinging to the tree for her life.

  
            Rinsing it off in the water, she mentally prepared herself to have to reset it, but she needed materials first. When the dirt and dust were removed, she could see that she’d been surprising wrong, her arm was still broken, but otherwise fine. Filled with relief, Molly rose out of the water and opted to use some of the trees bark. It was thick and rigid, peeling off close to perfect and in big enough sheets to cradle her arm on either side.

  
            Hard as she could, she ripped at her shirt, tearing off a few strips to secure it. The rest was a bit more delicate, using one hand to tie the arms splint tight enough. Pulling it until it hurt it a bit, she fumbled with the strips, barely managing to fasten them each time. As she tightened the last one, relief filled her. Wiping her sweat of her brow with one arm, she bent to pick her bra back up, pulling it back over her to use as a sling again.

  
             The only thing left to do right then was to finally catch breakfast, so picking up her spear, she made her way back into the pool of water to fish. Focusing on her necessities would keep her from falling apart, she knew. This wasn’t going to be easy. There were no stories that she knew of that told you how to endure and survive in a place so alien to what she had known.

  
             Humans are social creatures, though, and she ached for human contact. Last night, she had dream of Sherlock and their friends… but mostly Sherlock. Molly knew she was fighting so hard to live because she wanted to see him again. She missed him and she was certain he probably wasn’t even thinking of her now. If he was, he wasn’t thinking about her the way she was thinking about him.

  
             Molly wasn’t well skilled with her spear yet, so she missed the first few fish she attempted to catch. The hunger she felt was to blame, though, she knew. Waiting too much longer would give her a headache and then this all would be nearly impossible. This made her decide that, once she did catch a fish, she would eat, but then, the next course of business would be finding a way to store some food.

  
              Perhaps she would start with some gatherings of berries and the like that seemed edible. Meat would be too hard to keep fresh, after all, unless, maybe she found salt. First thing was first, though. It felt like ages, but she finally caught a fish. Excitedly, she retrieved the tools she’d used last night so she could clean and sanitize them as much as possible. Things had to get better, and then had to get better soon.  
As she finished eating and hiding her wares, a familiar creature hopped into her peripheral. Given recent events , not even Sherlock Holmes himself would be able to contain the shock of seeing a white rabbit, brazenly sprinting amongst the purple grass.


	7. Runaway

“Such a fussy guy, you are!” Sherlock winced at the pitch of Jenny’s voice as she stopped to adjust him in the chair. “You’re going to slide out if you keep doing that.” Though that had been the idea, he knew it wasn’t working, so he allowed her to hoist him back up into his chair. By now, at times, he was more zombie like than anything, hoping against hope it would work to his advantage. “Almost done, now. Frank is meeting up with us in your room and we’ll help you up into bed.” The drabness of the hospital was getting to him; the lack of color and the muteness of what was there really drained him. Sherlock needed out, simple as that. The walls were closing in on him; he needed to leave. His damn leg, though, held him back and complicated things.

  
                 As they turned the corner, a tired looking nursing assistant stood in the doorway, waiting for them. Frank always looked tired, though; Sherlock could easily read that he’d chosen a career path he absolutely hated. Perhaps he just wanted to please a parent or a parental figure, or he just thought it’d be easier for him. Whatever the case may be, it was clear to Sherlock that this was most likely a standard path in Frank’s family; medical or military. Soon, they would be ushering the poor boy to marry off and reproduce. For a brief moment, with Frank's arms wrapped around his back to properly balance him, he felt a bit sorry for the poor young man.

  
                 As he was sat in the bed, before they could pull him completely onto the mattress, an alert went off, calling upon all the medical staff to respond to a patient with a potentially fatal emergency. Sherlock could only assume heart failure. Either way, in their haste, they’d left the wheelchair unsupervised in his presence. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled himself back into the wheelchair and sped away as fast as his arms would allow him.

  
              Whirring past the room next door, where half the staff had gathered to save a life, he decided he needed clothing and hurried down to the locker first.

               An elevator ride down and he was deep in the bowels of St. Barts, nearer to his beloved morgue, but finally at his destination. Rolling inside, he quickly went through all that was available to him, noting whom he was stealing from so, later on, he could have Mycroft send them new clothing. Besides, these were a bit rag-like. It would do them good for him to take these and replace them with new especially considering he didn’t yet have undergarments on.

            As he approached the large, table-like bench in the middle of the lockers and laid himself up to fight the pants up over his cast, he said a silent prayer to a deity he didn’t truly believe in. The clothing simply didn’t want to cooperate with him and rough tailoring was going to be necessary. With a groan and a grumble, he sat up and began making tears near the seams, making the leg his cast was on open to be able to fit it. Satisfied with his work, he laid back down and was relieved to finally feel the warmth of the sweat pants cover his forever cold glutes. Maybe now they would finally find a comfortable temperature between freezing and asleep. Pulling the trousers up, he shimmed a bit in them, enjoying the lining against his delicate, pale privates as he caught his breath. Clothing himself in this position was certainly a workout, and he still needed to get back in his chair.

  
             Sitting back up, he pulled the chair closer, took another deep breath and pulled himself into it. Finally mobile again, he slipped out into the hall, found the nearest office and rolled into the dark, abandoned room. Given it was the dinner hour and these offices were more bureaucratic, focusing on the business end of things, it didn’t surprise Sherlock to see it dark and cold. Besides, as long as he rolled back among the cubicles far enough, he could easily hide for as long as he needed.

  
          In the dark, he fondled along the side of the white modem, searching for the power button and was rewarded with a lovely whir and bong-like chime. The glow of the screen illuminating his face, he finally felt as if this deep itch he had within his mind could finally be scratched. It was merely a computer load away.

  
           Perhaps as a physical response to the psychological itch, he began dragging his nails up and down his forearm, staring at the white screen. Another flicker of the screen and there he was, staring out at the cliched ocean background. A smile swept across his face; now he could find her. Sherlock was a bit embarrassed at how long it took him to find the application he needed; their network system listed employees and their office emails. It was even more silly considering he used to hack it from his home and memorize Molly’s schedule. It only made his job that much easier to know when she would be available to help him in the lab; she had a lot to do with why he used it, anyway.

  
           Sherlock had nearly gotten himself kicked out of Bart’s for good on more than one occasion and, each time, Molly had come to his rescue before he had to even consider phoning his brother to help clean up his mess. In fact, shortly after they first met, he had gotten into a tiff with one of her colleagues and she, graciously and gracefully, stepped in and sorted the situation out. Sherlock felt his dimples appearing for the first time in a long while reminiscing on their time together, but his face soon dropped again. His lips formed a deep frown and his brow furrowed.

  
“That’s not possible.” He muttered, confused and angry, swatting the side of the computer. “Why aren’t you on here?”

            The ground had given way beneath him. There must be some computer error, there had to be a glitch in the system, something in him was convinced that all he had to had to do was roll down to the morgue and he would see her; bent over a cadaver, mask on.e’d know that the very tip of her tongue was peeking out from between her lips, though. She would be weighing organs and taking knives to them, while still maintaining her sunny disposition and answer all his questions, share her data. With the bat of his eyes, she’d roll hers and with that same, charming smile, pull out another record or an entire body for him to simply check the feet, and she’d do it because she was Molly Hooper.This couldn’t be, it wouldn’t be. Molly had to be here, out in the world somewhere.

  
                          She couldn’t have abandoned him. He needed her like he needed John. Only Molly was different…. Molly was special.

 

                    Frustrated, he finally turned off the computer and chose to wheel out, past the morgue. It was filled with nothing but the scents the dead leave behind. No lingering tracing of her body wash or deodorant. Nothing. Wherever Molly was, she hadn’t been here recently.  
For a long, quiet moment, Sherlock sat there; right outside the doors of the darkened morgue. When he finally got the nerve, he rolled himself in, nearing the door to the office that housed her desk. Plainly, it wasn’t hers any more. Molly had decorated her little desk with purple mechanical pencils, a photo of her and her brother in a plastic pink frame and she had a teal blue mouse. Little snippets of her sweet personality released in appropriate ways, given the environment. Then, there was the little foldable canvas storage box she’d use for a spare pair of shoes she was afraid would get snatched in the locker room; he’d seen it set up with a short skirt and blouse set inside before.

  
                  Concentrating on his breath in order to maintain any semblance of control over himself, he turned to leave. At the moment, he wasn’t certain where he was headed but he needed answers. He had seen and touched Molly with his own eyes and hands and no one could tell him otherwise. As he rolled out on to the busy streets of London, he wondered where she was and if she was thinking of him.


	8. The Endurance of White Rabbits

                Frantically, Molly Hooper chased out after the white rabbit. Despite her injuries, several times, she felt as though she were flying through the air; soaring over trenches, downed tree trunks and ducking beneath branches, when they weren’t racing across the plain. Finally, to Molly’s relief and great interest, it stopped and it planted itself near where she had woken the other day. All she could do was breath and stare a few moments as she dropped her spear on the ground; heart thumping in her chest with such force, it was threatening to burst out and run away.

  
               The rabbit, however, hadn’t hid itself anywhere and, as far as Molly could tell, was paying her no mind despite her being only a few yards away. If her lungs could have handled it at that moment, she would have been able to muss his fur with a single forceful blow. Still, the ball of white fur sat there, grooming itself in the long, soft, purple grass, content as could be.

  
               Worrying at her lower lip, Molly surveyed her situation. After all the running, she felt a need for water, but, since she was here, she might as well investigate before trekking back to her spot. Unsure of where to start, she decided anywhere was better than nowhere, and picked up a green rock. As she examined it, she gently brushed the dirt off with her thumb, it had an interesting marbled design and definitely intrigued her.

  
                Tossing it up and down a few times with her good hand, she finally gave a strategic throw and watched it fly right over the bunny's head. With a great sigh, she accepted that, perhaps, she had tried to lie to herself. Maybe there was no way back for her. Maybe she would never see home again.

  
                Furiously, Molly shook her head, trying to free herself from the vice grip of that thought that she couldn’t accept. If there was a way here, there must be way home. One mustn’t give up so easily. Gathering herself, she proceeded to examine the immediate area. Pushing back the grass to reveal the soil, following an estimated radius around the general spot in order to fulfill the assumption that she had flown a decent distance. Finally, she took further of note the rabbit. Cool and calm for a creature such as it was, normally a prey animal constantly seeking refuge. Yet, there it sat. Smiling, she supposed, as only a rabbit could smile.

  
                 Free hand coiled around her, she braced herself against the chill developing in the wind and constricted her arm to hug herself as best she could. Sniffling a bit she approached the rabbit and sat beside the gentle, familiar animal briefly.

  
“Do you belong here?” She asked, aching for contact already. “Did you come over with me?”

                  Giggling a bit at herself and her expectation of the rabbit to answer her inquiry into its parentage and homeland. The comfort the rabbit gave her made her chest burn with ache, she was so close yet so far to where she had from. All the while, though, through it all, there was no sign of Sherlock. Only the rabbit, which seemed to mock her in its relaxed, sleep like state. There was no other hint that she could find of how she came to be here or what had happened to Sherlock and she wasn’t sure which she found worse.

  
                Closing her eyes, she reached out and began to stroke the bunny, allowing it to usher her into a meditative state. No matter what, she wouldn’t live if she couldn’t keep her mind calm and focused; none of this panicking and collapsing into herself was going to help her survive and, if it was possible, find a way home.

  
                As it was, Molly, the rabbit and her spear were all she had in this world currently. A bit of reality in the face of the sheerly unreal. She needed their tight tethers and found the desire to build more. Given the circumstances, she wasn’t sure whether they were to secure some normalcy or to distract her. Not that it mattered because without her mental health nothing was possible.

  
“Well, I’m going to head back to my tree.” She announced, opening her eyes and drawing back her hand from the rabbit so she could help herself up. It was a long walk back to camp from here but, picking her spear, she refused to allow the obviously setting sun deter her. “You’re welcome to come along.” She offered her new friend as she began walking at steady pace. Urging her feet to go a just that much faster; she wasn’t sure she could navigate in the dark and preferred not to take that chance.

  
               The further she walked, though, the more she realized that time was on her side and it was likely she would make it back in plenty of time. The casting of shadows had made her nervous but as she approached her chosen camp, rabbit, to her surprise, in tow, she chose to build a fire. Yesterday, she had been silly enough to consider building other shelter but, after seeing the large creatures that had been milling about below her perch, she knew that a ground shelter was not her safest bet.

  
               Fishing was already a bit easier and, she knew, it would only become easier as time went went on and hoped for as little time here as possible. She missed grocery stores. The smell, prodding at the produce to find just the right one of each vegetable she put in her cart, the beeps of the chip and pin machines and even fighting with them.

  
             Solemnly, she ate her fish and made plans to better develop her habitat more and make things more familiar and convenient. Maybe make some sort of cup or canteen; she’d have to improvise. The only bright spot of the day was finding the little white rabbit that appeared to take a shine to her.  
  
              Things would get better, she told herself. Either she’d adapt to this new life, find her way back, or die in the process. Building anything tomorrow didn’t mean she’d be giving up, simply making the best out of a bad situation and getting her thoughts together. Maybe learning more about her environment would help her figure out how she might be able to get back home to Sherlock and the London she knew and loved.

“I suppose I should give you a name.” She shrugged, looking down at the rabbit by her feet. “Do you like Nivens? I mean, this isn’t exactly the same, but this place kind of has a feel like the man’s M.O. .”

             When the rabbit moved closer, sitting on her shoe in the fire light and enjoying their closeness, Molly took that as an affirmative response.

  
“Alright, Nivens. Should I try to take you up the tree with me?” She giggled, gently picking the animal up and resting her atop her splint and set to smothering her fire. As it had been the night before, climbing up the tree with limited use of one arm wasn’t easy, even less so with the rabbit. The niche in her branch called to her, though, prepared to soothe her to sleep in the dark, foreign wilderness she was forced to endure.  
And she would. No matter what. Anything less than all the fight in her to come out of the other side wasn’t enough. There was no time for tears, only action. Everything else needed to shut down for the time being. She would be like Nivens and endure as the little white rabbit did.


	9. A Generous Head Start

             Sherlock was grateful to be free from the confinement of the hospital, but it wasn’t exactly an ideal situation either way. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, so, eventually, he’d have to make his return to the cold, sterile cell that still stood empty, waiting for him back at St. Barts.

  
             His gut told him it may not be the best idea, but still he strode into New Scotland Yard with confidence and purpose. The only unfortunate thing was he wasn’t exactly at his most elegant in the manual wheelchair he was stuck in. Nearly every doorway had him hissing a swear at his broken leg. The day it came off would be a blessing; a long awaited reprieve from the frustration his injury brought him. Words could not properly describe the irritation he felt, two to three more weeks still left in the cast and it wouldn’t stop itching and, most unpleasantly, he could smell the odor developing within it. Others seemed not to notice, though, as far as he could tell, but him being able to smell it was enough for him.

  
            Carefully he turned his chair into the bullpen of officers desks and temporary offices for visiting law enforcement or consultants.When he’d resurrected, returning redeemed and relatively unscathed, he’d been offered one but, of course, declined; not his thing. It only took a few moments for him to find who he was looking for.

  
“You!” The sketch artist glared, all color fading from her face. Losing her balance, she leaned back.

“Hello, Pauline. How are you?” Sherlock smiled, warmly.

“Fine.” The sketch artist answered, through gritted teeth, trying to make her voice high and friendly. “What do you want?”

“I want a copy of your sketch.”

“You can find it online.”

“Yes, or I can save time and go straight to the source. Now, please, may I have a copy of the sketch?” For a moment, she stared at him, defiant to his will, but with a heavy sigh, relented.

“Fine.” Shaking her head, she opened the file cabinet and began sifting through the sketches. “This one, right?” She asked, holding up the face of Molly Hooper. There was no expression on her features and the 2D drawing lacked the ability to animate the light in her eyes; it didn’t show her loving spirit, but it was Molly Hooper.

“Yes.” His mouth had gone dry and his voice cracked as he used it, but she paid it no mind as she rose with a huff to walk off to the photocopier. It was hard not to fidget as he sat and waiting, scratching at his neck and thigh to try to keep himself still. The click of her shoes bought his attention and quelled his anxiety.

“Here you are.” She murmured, placing the copy in front of him and taking her seat across from him at her desk, original in hand to refile.

“Thank you.” Clearing his throat, he accepted the print out and began turning his chair around to wheel away.

“Sherlock,” He met her eyes from over his shoulder and read the sincerity painted on her face. “I hope you find your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my….” Sherlock began to argue with Pauline, but thought better of it. “Thanks, again.” He said, simply, and continued on his way; out of the bullpen and back to the hall that lead to the entry.

            Somehow, it felt longer this time; the marble on the the floor seemed to stretch on forever like an unforgiving wilderness. Hearing his own heartbeat, pounding thunderously, in his chest, he wondered if it was medical; was he having a heart attack? Was it a clot? An aneurysm? Was he dying?

  
           He gripped at the bars of his chair and breathed. Yes, he thought, it is medical. No, it is not a heart attack,clot or aneurysm. He, certainly, wasn’t near death.This was a panic attack. It’d been ages since he had one; puberty’s hormonal changes were as brutal for him as anyone else, and triggered these attacks frequently.

  
           Gathering himself, he found a sanctuary in the form of a male stick figure placard drilled to a door. Once in the safety of the handicapped stall of the restroom, Sherlock fought through his fit of gasping breaths and uncharacteristic tears. Even as he felt himself level out and calm down, he still couldn’t help reeling from the confusion of his body and mind betraying him.

  
           After what felt like ages, he finally retrieved enough control of himself to venture back out into the world, though red eyed and puffy faced. Sherlock couldn’t help all that, he could only push on towards the door until he heard a familiar voice call his name. Taking a deep breath, he turned his chair to look up at his friend, Greg Lestrade, and smile. Obviously, the DI wasn’t exactly overjoyed to see him.  
“Good god, “ He groaned at Sherlock, before ushering him into his office and shocking him entirely. “You’re still having the panic attacks.” Lestrade asserted, defiantly.

  
“Excuse me?” Sherlock couldn’t properly hide his surprise.

“You told us all they stopped, ages ago.” Lestrade looked a bit sad as his eyes drifted up and down Sherlock, investigating him. “Do you still have the nightmares?” Sherlock could only blink at the question, taken aback at the implications of it. “Come on, now, don’t play coy. Are they back?”

  
“I honestly do not know what you are talking about. I don’t remember having a panic attack in the last twenty years before today.” Frustrated, Greg threw his arms up paced in a circle, filing at his beard with his hands as he rubbed, furiously, at his chin. “Its the truth. I don’t remember having a notable nightmare as an adult, either. You must believe me.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what to believe.” Greg continued rubbing at any hair above the neck his hands found, as if his head were a crystal ball.

“Why are you even out here like this?” As he asked the question, he finally realized what he’d seen on Sherlock's lap since he’d wheeled into his office. “The girl.” Firmly, he ran his fingers down his face before burying his face in them.

“Molly Hooper.” Sherlock argued, swallowing hard.

“You need to go back to hospital, Sherlock. Right now.” The DI set his head free to shake and stepped forward to retrieve his jacket from behind his friend where it hung on the back of his door.

“No.” Exhausted from just seeing a few moments, Lestrade sighed again as he met Sherlocks pleading gaze. “Just give me a little time. Let me try to find her. I know she’s out there.”

After some consideration, he relented. “You have six hours.”

“Six hours? How on earth can anyone be expected to find a missing person who no one seems to know, with few leads in six hours?”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you figure it out.” He pulled on his coat and opened the office door. “I think six hours is a generous head start considering. I can’t make any promises where your brother is concerned, though.” Sherlock nodded at this, not in a position to argue given the circumstances and wheeled himself out of the building. Hoping London’s busy streets would be forgiving than his worn out and tired friends.


	10. Annabelle Holden

              The setting of the sun had darkened the room where Sherlock sat, fussing in his wheelchair in the glow of a large computer screen. Frustrated, he opted to make his way to a lone vending machine just outside the door of the lab dedicated to the technology he was utilizing.  
It was nice to hear the soft buzzing of the vending machine; it was a nice change from the disappointing silence of the facial recognition software. He wasn’t even hungry, just needed to be away from the piercing glow of the screen. He was beginning to lose after running Molly Hooper's image through the database for the past four hours. A new plan of attack needed to be devised and the steady throbbing in his head told him , despite not otherwise feeling hungry, he needed to eat something at this point, though, nothing looked appetizing.

  
              As was recent habit, his frustration gave way to itching as if his appendages were inflamed with an invisible rash. While one hand scratched at his arm, the other slipped into his pocket, fondling for spare change he’d gathered from atop office desks and drawers in the other room. Examining his prize, he stopped scratching and proceeded to count the coins in his hand, wondering if, perhaps, he could hurry off to get take away instead. The probability of someone, anyone, walking in on his scan at this hour wasn’t likely, particularly since he was using his brothers keycard for access. A night janitor or national emergency, though, were the last things he wanted to risk, particularly since the latter would illuminate the entire building like a Christmas tree.

  
               No, he must play it safe and guard the door to the scanning equipment, all the while pleading with the universe to show him her face again. Truth be told, all he wanted was to see her and speak with her again right now. Anything else was a bonus.

  
           About the time he was he was counting the coins for the third go round, whether to entertain himself or because his head was throbbing, he jumped back at the sound of a brown bag crinkling by his ear and a voice speaking he’d recognize anywhere.

  
“Here, brother dear.” Mycroft offered him the bag and a coffee, freeing up the hand to redistribute his own sacked lunch and coffee. “I assumed you’d still be looking for her when you disappeared from the hospital.” With a deep sigh, he lead the way back into into the office. “You’ll ruin your eyes working in the dark like this.” Casually, he moved the coffee back to the other hand and allowed his umbrella to drift from his wrist to his palm and lifted it to flick the light switch.

  
“I wasn’t thinking about my eyes.” Sherlock grumbled, slowly joining him by the machine, where Mycroft had commandeered a desk for his own small spread.

“Anthea suggested this juvenile delivery of the typical sandwich, fruit and crisps would appeal to you; put you in better spirits.” Anthea was right, the sight of his brother daintily nibbling at a peanut butter and jelly sandwich certainly put a smile on his face. A small one, but a smile nonetheless.

“You know, Mycroft,” Finding his own desk, Sherlock slowly dumped his food out. “Some adults bring their lunches to work in a sac. It’s not all that juvenile.”

“Perhaps, you’re right, but neither of us are here to discuss the age limit on brown bagged lunches, now, are we?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows in Sherlock’s direction, who was chomping at his sandwich like a starving wild animal. Unable to speak, Sherlock simply shook his head, raising up his coffee to wash out the peanut butter.

“I suppose not. So, tell me, brother mine,” Sherlock mocked. “Are you worried about me, too? Come to drag me back to hospital again? Is there a psych team ready and waiting?”

“I’m always worried about you, Sherlock. I think you may fare better staying with me, though.” Before Sherlock had a chance to protest, Mycroft raised his hand. “Everyone else wants you under the care of a psychiatric team. You either stay with me, though neither of us truly wants that, or accept that we’ve been out voted and prepare to fight or submit to the will of those that care for you so much.”

“There’s no fourth option?” Mycroft shrugged.

“I suppose so, but is it any better?” The elder Holmes spoke as if he already knew the answer; as if he was simply quizzing his younger brother.

“I have to find her, Mycroft.” Sherlock shook his head. “No matter what, I need to find her.” Mycroft considered this a moment, leaning back in the desk chair and releasing a long, audible exhale.  
Pursing his lips, he reached into his jacket and, like magic, pulled a file from it and stood to present it to Sherlock before sitting back down. If he weren’t in the chair. Sherlock might have fallen over.

 

* * *

“Annabelle Holden.” Sherlock spat, whispering to himself in the backseat of the van. “Where on earth could she have come up with that name?”

“My guess would be her mother.” Mycroft sneered, unamused with his brothers confusion.

“I don’t understand how she’s never been to London.” The younger continued to grumble to himself.

“I’m sure she has been to London at some point, but she splits her life between Chicago and Leeds. She’s a medical journalist, after all.” The ever silent Anthea giggled from her spot in the drivers seat. Mycroft was allowing Sherlock’s verbalized thought process to get to him. “Did you even read the file, Sherlock?” Of course, he ignored his older brother, fidgeting in the restrained wheelchair as he clawed at his own arm and cast on his leg.

“There!” He shouted, pulling at his tie downs. As the last one broke loose, Anthea had just hit the brakes and Sherlock found himself flying out the back doors and onto the pavement. “Molly!” He shouted after the woman in the rosy pink, tea length dress he’d seen from the window.

“Molly Hooper!” Her black, knee high, faux leather boots were certainly out of character for her. The dress pattern wasn’t, though. As he approached, he noticed it was a lite pink decorated with white appliques. Finally catching up to her, he took her hand and turned her to face him. For a moment, he just stared into her eyes, between the rims of her cat eye glasses, but finally he managed to speak. “Aren’t you cold?” He asked, noticing her dress had thin straps and gave little coverage. With a gasp, Annabelle withdrew her hand.

“Who are you?” Stepping back, she grabbed at the braid on her shoulder.

“Sherlock… you must remember me, Molly, I---”

“Who’s Molly?”

“Well... you. You’re Molly…. Molly Hooper. You work in the morgue at St. Barts in London. Speaking of which we should get you back there.” Again, Sherlock reached for her hand, but she pulled further away.

“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. My name isn’t Molly.” Before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft and Anthea finally made their appearance.

“Apologies, my good lady.” Mycroft stepped forward, offering her a handshake, which she timidly accepted. “I’m Mycroft, this is my brother, Sherlock, and our sister, Megan.”

“Hello!’ Anthea, chipperly exclaimed.

“Megan, please, take him back to the van.” With a nod, Anthea pulled Sherlock away and back to the van. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss-”

“Mrs. Holden!” Annabelle was obviously not amused and on guard.

“Mrs. Holden, you must understand… my brother recently lost his betrothed in a terrible accident. It’s how he broke his leg. You have the grave misfortune of looking a lot like her, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Staring sorrowfully at the van, Annabelle seemed convinced of Mycroft’s story.

“He meant no harm, ma’am. He’s simply mad with mourning.”

“The poor dear.” With a shake of her head, she dismissed herself and walked away, leaving Mycroft to walk back to the van.

“Are you out of your mind, Sherlock! Accosting a young woman in the street like that!” He was sure his older brother was still yammering on, but continued to stare forward as Anthea turned the van around to make their way back to London.


	11. A Place to Lay it All Down

          Molly feared very deeply that she may be losing hope and had to force herself with every fiber of her being to latch on to the singular thought of seeing Sherlock once again. Of course, she missed her family, but none of them were part of her day-to-day in the sense that Sherlock was, that was certain. The only good news was that her arm seemed to have healed just fine though, given she didn’t believe it had been six weeks yet, she wore her splint to bed and throughout the day. After all, there was going to be muscle weakness and the sooner she took to attempting to strengthen it, the better.

  
              Every other day, she had started to walk back out the scene of the accident, as it were, there wasn’t really any other word for it, and investigate again. This really only made her miss Sherlock more; there wasn’t much to find. It wasn’t completely fruitless, though, she had found a few small pieces of non organic material around that alleviate her worries of being crazy. She found a chunk of what could only be the visor of the motor bike and some broken glass. They didn’t cure her loneliness, though. The white rabbit wasn’t much company and didn’t provide near enough mental stimulation and companionship as she needed. It was of interest to her, though, the rabbit seemed completely comfortable around her, even following her about most of the time. She assumed, when we wasn’t near her, he was out doing bunny like things. Perhaps having tea. Whatever it was, it was Niven’s business, no one else's.

            Hours throwing rocks and digging through the technicolored grass, and she had little to show for it but dirty nails and the few sparse vehicle bits. No sign of any other familiar type of life or evidence of how to possibly get home. It was getting harder to fight the hopelessness. She wasn’t even sure what happened and was perplexed by the growing evidence that there was only a doorway into this world and not out.

Sniffling and biting at her lower lip, she looked towards Niven.

  
“Well, perhaps we should head back now, Nivens, while there’s still light.”She gave the small rabbit a tight smile as, seemingly in understanding of her words, starting hopping off toward her camp. It deepened as she walked on, gripping at the elbow of her healed arm in order to cradling it as she walked.

  
          This world didn’t only look different, it smelled different. Sometimes, the breeze would carry a far off scent that she could only place as what she’d imagine thinking of as burning bleach. Irritating her eyes and nose and, if the scent was strong enough, her ears would ache as well.  
Then, there were days were a sweeter scent would be carried in on the wind. Something akin to cinnamon or a sweetener. Somehow, not sugar itself, she was certain of that.There was no telling why she didn’t associate it with actual sugar but, rather, its artificial replacements. Perhaps it was the taste of them. Stevia has an entirely feel to sugar.

  
              Most days, though, the smell reminded her of a musky perfume balanced with some lighter scents of flowers and other blossoming plant life. She enjoyed that this world was so aromatic and seemed cleaner than her own, given the lack of development from a species like her own, with its negative influences on their environment. With all the good her race did, though, the pleasant smell of any day didn’t hold a candle to her old life. The one that she, foolishly, expected to have.

  
                Until the accident, she didn’t expect to know what it meant to have your life change completely in an instant. The morning before this all happened, she was sitting in her flat, reading the paper and eating jam on toast with her morning chai tea. If she would have only known, she might have spent the money on the pumpkin spiced latte she’d wanted. Or had bacon for breakfast, she hadn’t had that in ages. Or simply have just created a better last memory in her flat than eating raspberry preserves on a piece of bread and reading the comics page.

  
                 It was just a sad feeling but, in all honesty, there was no other way to feel about her predicament. As she neared the tree where she made her new home and watched her new and only friend, Nivens pop in and out of the strangely colored grass, she released a heavy sigh and held back tears. These days were always long and difficult to endure. Exhausting her beyond measure, mentally, physically and spiritually.White knuckling to the far flung hope of ever seeing her flat again or her cat, Toby, or hearing Sherlock's voice again was dragging her down. As she climbed the tree that night, she wondered if she were truly making the best of her horrid situation or if she had to let go of that pipe dream in order to survive.

  
                 The cradle created by the knot of the tree branch offered no psychological comfort or genuine answers, either. At the very least, though, it provided her with a place to release to deep aches of the day gone by and recharge for the next sunrise. In the leagues deep darkness that surround her and the white rabbit, there was nothing but uncertainty like she’d never known.

  
                 Niven didn’t seem to judge her uncharacteristic tears. He simply absorbed them into himself without question. Sometimes, he was the very best type of friend and,Molly was certain, he put forth an effort to properly extended his own brand of friendship. There wasn’t much the ball of fluff could truly offer in the way of love and affection but, what he did offer, he gave without any expectations. She added Niven to the list of things that kept her fighting and pushing through each day.

  
                   If this was all she had, it would have to be enough. At least she had a place to lay it all down at the end of such a day.


	12. Sweet Release

          The hospital room was silent despite the presence of the three men. Sherlock hadn’t been very talkative the past few weeks, especially since the trip to Leeds. He’d become nearly mute since meeting Annabelle Holden, but his uncharacteristically nervous brother and his long time friend had been taking turns watching him like a hawk, along with their assistant and wife, respectively. Sherlock detested being baby sat, but was grateful for the help with bathing and making sure he ate. His life had been so dull as of late, that he had had the same conversation with John several times.

  
“You know, Sherlock, things might be easier for you if you just, you know, communicated.” As he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he flicked his eyes toward the door where John stood, weight braced on the door frame,looking frustrated.

“You said ‘you know’ twice in that sentence.” Sherlock responded in monotone, forcing John to shake his head and turn to leave. It was what he wanted, though, to be alone; meditating and focusing on his problem. For a while, he felt dejected and his silence was his way of coping; internalizing all his emotions and allowing them to nip at his insides like violent, starving parasites. Until, that is, the morning he felt the cognitive strength to start making plans and problem solve.

           It was obvious that he was on his own, but that didn’t deter him; he’d taken on far crazier stunts and ideas in his nearly forty years, what was another one? As he got older it was easier for him to hide any pain or sense of betrayal from the people in his life.Even if Mycroft had actually tried to help, he stopped where the facts he could find lead him. Sherlock, on the other hand, was following his instincts and memories. Molly Hooper was real. He needed Molly Hooper. This feeling in his gut, this stirring in his soul; it was like the pull of a magnet and trying to drag him into Molly’s gravity. He belonged there, like the moon in the sky. Long before, he was an entirely different person, but after colliding with her and experiencing her presence, he longed to remain in her atmosphere. Pulling at her waves, controlling the tides, lighting up her darkest hours. This deep need in him had to met. Vital as food and water, this was no different to him. All he wanted was to be back where he belonged.

  
           Off in the distance, from where Sherlock sat, he could hear the ticking of a clock outside the room. Each click was another moment he was confined in this cast and separated from Molly. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall at what point he lost his mind, but he was now neck deep in frustration at his entire situation. Between the cast and the distance from Molly, he hadn’t felt like himself for ages. It would be nice to walk without the cast on, even if would be using a cane.

  
“It’s been a long while.” John attempted to make conversation, leg bouncing as he was leaned back in the plastic chair.

“You don’t have to stay, John. I’m perfectly capable --” Before Sherlock could finish, John interrupted.

“Now, why on earth, would you draw that conclusion from my comment?” Mycroft said nothing as he observed them, snipping a bit at each other.

  
“I just -- figured you might have something better to do.” With a shrug, Sherlock’s focus remained fixed on the door, away from John.

“Oh, for goodness sakes, you two.” The elder Holmes whined. Before Mycroft could continue, the door open and the doctor finally came in. Sometimes, Sherlock was exceptionally easy for Mycroft to read and he knew his brother could read his joy at having his cast, finally removed. In fact, he was giddy as a school boy and aching for a bath to properly wash the leg. Frankly, it smelled dank and offensive no matter what he attempted to do and the powder suggested hadn’t done much. He’d be self conscious about it if he left the house more often than the occasional doctor’s appointment.

            This also meant he could move back to Baker Street and out of Mycroft's downstairs guest room. He wasn’t totally certain how he felt about that; no one would catch him voicing how much he liked seeing his brother in the wee hours of the morning before the liter of coffee he regularly guzzled down in the morning. Perhaps he was exaggerating the amount of coffee consumed, but not the comedy of the barely awake, highly educated government official only replying in grunts for nearly a full two hours every morning. How Anthea had managed to learn the dialect and lethargic body language of his brother before sunrise, he would never know.

  
“Alright, Mr. Holmes, everything looks in order,” The very young doctor began (probably fresh out of school and, Sherlock guessed, he had graduated early more than once). “If you want to lay back, I’ll just get the circular saw and scissors.” Annoyed, Sherlock held his tongue and sat back, just as he was asked. It was odd this man had become a doctor because, as far as Sherlock could tell, he had a lot of allergies and didn’t enjoy dissections in his classes. Well, at least he could handle cutting through Sherlock’s cast unless he nicked something, than he was liable to freak out. He gave it two years before the guy would realize it wasn’t for him and go back to school for something else. Anyone could see he only wanted to be a doctor for the title and the accolades. Returning to him with the saw, he took Sherlock’s leg firmly in his hands and began to make the first cuts. Much to Sherlock’s relief, he seemed to be steady and able to cut a line the proper depth. Silently, tiny giggles started to escape Sherlock’s lips. “Oh, does it tickle? Some patients say it tickles through the padding. After all, that skins become so sensitive, wrapped up so long.” Sherlock nodded, biting at his lip to keep from falling into a fit as the young doctor finished on his foot. “Ok, I’m going to need you on your side. Do you need help?” Sherlock declined, but being the protect older brother he was, Mycroft still stepped in. Even keeping his hand above Sherlock’s knee as the rest of his cast of cut and holding his shoulder when he was asked to lay back again. Sherlock wanted to, but decided not to fuss. Sometimes, Mycroft genuinely tried to be a good big brother, just in his own way.

  
                  The younger Holmes let out a cry of relief as air brushed his shin for the first time in nearly two months. He couldn’t help it, it felt so grand. Immediately, he urged John to help him with his second sock and shoe.

  
“Come on, I just need help, not for you to put them on for me.” Sherlock insisted to the groaning John.

“Yeah, but I might as well.” He fussed, feeling as though he’d played nursemaid long enough.

“Don’t be silly, just hand them to me. Besides, it’s still rather sensitive.” Argued Sherlock, hand out for the sock. “I just might need help putting on the shoe once I get my trousers back on.” Perhaps he’d done far too much whining when he had made the effort to open his mouth since staying with hs brother. John handed off the dark blue sock, rolling his eyes and turned to grab the trousers, which Sherlock had sorely missed; shorts were not his thing at all.

              The doctor dismissed himself; if he said much else, Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He was eager to exchange his chair for a cane and, hopefully soon, he would need neither. The plans he had that afternoon, though, after lunch, weren’t exactly what others would call normal and he didn’t plan to share them with anyone. As usual, he was certain John probably thought him rude as he made contact and raised his arm, requesting aid with his trousers.

  
“Could have used the table.” John cleared his throat, obviously grumpy about something. He made a mental note to allow John to complain about whatever the problem was later. Right now, he couldn’t even pretend to care but, in order to keep friendships, one had to do annoying things every once in awhile and one of them was complain to one another.Sherlock let out a cheerful shriek as he secured his trousers and tucked in his shirt.

“Hmmm….” He investigated himself in the small mirror above the sink. “Perhaps I should have gone with the lavender shirt rather than powder blue.”

“Sherlock, we waited ages for you to pick out a damned shirt this morning.” Mycroft bit, clearly annoyed with his brother. Tensions had been rather high since the accident, Sherlock wondered if they’d ever calm down. Than again, the men before him had been subjected to thinking he was dead, might die or assumed he was going to and then seeing him resurrect each time. That couldn’t have been easy for either of them. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Just an observation, brother. I need a bath anyway, perhaps I’ll change later.” He sniffed and took another moment to admire his reflexion as he pulled on his blazer.

“I think that would be best.” Mycroft growled. “I trust you can get him home safely.” He asked John, ignoring his brother.

“Yes, of course.” Preparing to head out of doors, John handed Sherlock his Belstaff.

“Alright then, if he’s not ready for the stairs ---”

“I’ll be ready for the stairs ----” Sherlock interrupted his brother.

“IF he is not ready for the stairs,” Mycroft began, insistent. “bring him back to my place and we’ll try again after some of his physical therapy.”

“That was the plan.” Aghast, Sherlock’s mouth fell open at John’s response.

“Wait, you discussed this without me?”

“Yes”

“Of course….” The two other men replied in unison. “you don’t think we’d leave your care to chance, do you?” Mycroft continued.“Dr. Watson is a medical professional, after all, I wouldn’t want you in the care of just anyone. Matter of fact, Anthea will be checking in around lunch each day, if you could possibly find in yourself to be polite to her, I’d be very much obliged.”

  
“Since when have I ever been rude to Anthea.” Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “Alright, fine, but she tried to feed me bran.”

“It wouldn’t have killed you, Sherlock.” The tone was authoritative, parental and Sherlock resented that; it always brought out the worst in him.

“It was tasteless and gritty.” Sherlock insisted, whining a bit.

“It was once.” Before Mycroft’s volume could raise much higher, John interjected.

“Alright, you two, I really think we ought to head out, now, don’t you?” An irritated set of brothers agreed, pulled their coats tight and Sherlock accepting his cane from John and beginning the long hobble out to hail a taxi.

When they were finally within it’s warmth, Sherlock turned to John.

“I won’t be needing you about this afternoon.” He spoke, frankly.

“Oh, really, and why should allow you to spend so long alone?” Obviously, insulted, John folded his arms across his chest.

“Because it’s not your call and I have plans.” Sherlock began fiddling with his phone, distracting himself from his friends obvious upset with him in general.

“Plans? Hold on, what kind of plans?”

“Private plans.”

“Private plans? That you don’t intend to share with me?” Sherlock nodded. “I see, alright. So, you won’t be sharing any details with me, now, would you.” The dark haired man pursed his lips and shook his head. Sherlock knew better than to inform his friend he’d be attempting to recreate the accident. It would ruin his entire plan.


	13. The Sensation of Flying

            It had been a little harder than he had expected, but Sherlock had finally gotten a motorbike identical to the one he had destroyed the day he lost Molly Hooper. Anyone he would have asked would have clearly told him this was ill advised, but he simply couldn’t think of another way to fix this. In his mind’s eye, he could see them growing more and more bored; disengaged, their eyes glazing over with disinterested as he attempt to explain string theory and other dimensions.

  
            Sherlock wasn’t even sure he knew what he was talking about himself, honestly, but he would have tried. His confidence would overcompensate for his lack of study on the subject. Some bits were so illogical, they made him uncomfortable. As he secured his helmet and started up his bike, he pushed out an intentional breath. All his hopes rested on this working; if it didn’t, he wasn’t sure what else he could do. He wasn’t himself without her.

          The roads felt more winding than they actually were on a bike because of the weight shifts. His heart pounding in his chest and his palms sweating, he found himself, at several points, wondering if he should stop. This was reckless and put others in danger, it wasn’t very fair. For whatever reason, he couldn’t stop himself. He was absolutely certain that, the moment he chose this was the point of no return; he’d gone on autopilot.

 

  
* * *

 

            Molly had never felt the tree shake like this before, waking her up from her dreams of Sherlock and herself experimenting in the lab. Before her eyes fluttered open, she gripped onto the bark, pulling her rabbit friend and spear closer to her. Glancing down, she saw an animal like she had seen before. Pink, four legs, rather low to the ground, only this one was larger and alone; if there were only two genders of these creatures, this was the one she hadn’t seen before. The force with which it bounded into the tree, crying out threateningly, horrified Molly.  
She wasn’t sure if there were anyway of fighting back. Her choices were to grip on with all her might and stay in the tree as long as possible, or get to the ground and fight. The second wasn’t something she desperately wanted for, hoping, perhaps, at some point the creature would become tired or disinterested. That wasn’t to be, she was sure, but maybe she could be wrong.

   
           The moment she lost her footing would be the end of her, she had to hold on as tight as possible. Every shake of the tree and tremor of force, elevated her heart beat and forced her mind to race.

  
“Clear your mind, you must know something that will help.” She whispered to herself, into the trunk of the tree and it scratched at her face. “Please, grow tired.” She pleaded, hopping the creature would opt for fish and she wouldn’t have to try to fight with it. Molly also hoped that it was alone; she would be no match for a pride or herd or whatever a group of them may be called.

 

 

* * *

 

             Worried about his own lack of judgement, Sherlock gave up debating and agonizing over every decision he was making. Giving in to the autopilot was almost meditative. Though it would be ill advised to suggest anyone meditate while riding a motor bike, the sensation Sherlock was feeling in his mind was comparable. Wherever she was, he was going to find her. He’d never been so certain of anything in his life than he was of that. The outcome of this would be him reunited with her and he cared not where that was or how he would have to live or be… he had to find her.

  
              The wind wrapping around his body like a blanket was a comfort to him, almost, considering how risky this was and afraid he was. A number of things could happen but nothing would be worse than this experiment failing. It was all he had and he was growing desperate. As he came to the intersection, he found the speed he had been with before and headed straight for the car he hoped would run the stop light.  
And it did.

  
Leaving the seat of the bike, he released his fear of anything, including death, in order to feel the sensation of flying and it was glorious.

 

 

* * *  
 

 

            Despite how tightly she gripped on to him, Nivens slipped from her grip. Deeply upset, she screamed, left to watch as the monster abandoned her and ran off after him. She knew, with all of her, she knew he was gone, but would allow herself to mourn later. Now, she needed to protect herself, she just wasn’t certain how.

  
            Perhaps, she could shimmy further up the tree to better hide with the branches, obscured by the leaves. If she did lose her grip, the fall might kill her, rather than the beast and that was preferable to her. Then, there was climbing down and running. She had no idea how fast the creature could run, though, and wasn’t sure that was worth the risk.

  
              So, she took a deep breath and began climbing, deep into the protection of the leaves. Every inch she traveled up, the branches became thinner, losing their ability to hold her weight. It was also harder to hold on with the spear in her hand, but she was sure giving it up would only add to the danger of the situation she was in.

  
              After a few feet, she paused to look out and survey what she could, wondering why she hadn’t before. The answer was simple, though, it wasn’t where her mind was. Once her breath had caught, she continued.

  
               Molly kept her eyes fixed on the branches before her as she pulled herself up and away from what lay below her. The height she knew she was at would give her vertigo, given her fear of heights. It’d afflicted her from a young age, but she was not going to let that hold her back now. The moment she did, she would have lost and she wasn’t going to lose, at least not that way.

  
               As tightly as she gripped each branch, though, and delicately shifted her weight, there was no way it wasn’t bound to happen. The deadly snap that sent her plummeting into infinity. As she fell backwards, occasionally hitting branches that winded her or brushing leaves that mussed her hair, she frantically reached out, hoping to save herself. Eventually, though, she gave in, at peace, and allowed herself to feel the sensation of flying. It was so peaceful.

  
                There was no more worry about anything; she had never felt more secure and firm in her decision to let go and release herself to falling, not worrying about any pain she may feel at the end of this journey. There was freedom in simply letting go.  
By the time she felt his arms around her and heard his soft voice, she knew she was exactly where she was meant to me.  
“Molly?” His voice cracked, dry and filled with desperation.

  
“Sherlock?” Completely in disbelief, she opened her eyes and met his, tears brimming in them and blurring her vision. Before she could stop herself, their lips were pressed together and his arms had tightened around her. She must have been constricting his neck with her own arm, but she didn’t seem to care. Everything she needed was in that kiss and the comfort of his arms.

“William gently placed Rose’s feet on the ground and began to waltz with her in the field they’d found themselves in; Nivens hopping above the grass in the distance and they both knew they were home.” Molly finished, as Sherlock's eyes fluttered opened and his confused gazed met the white hospital walls.


	14. Patients,Patience and Solitaire

               For a few moments, Sherlock lay in the hospital bed, having re-closed his eyes. While they were open, he had seen Molly seated in one on the hospitals more plush chairs that she’d obviously stolen from the waiting room as well as the bedside table between them. As he listened, he heard her sigh and close what, if he remembered right, was a spiral bound notebook. An aluminum ting, though, startled him enough to force his eyes open.

  
“Oh, my god, Sherlock!” Soaring across the room, Molly jumped from her seat and wrapped her arms around him.

“What happened?” Sherlock mumbled into her obnoxiously bright pink jumper.

“Well, we were in a motorbike accident and you hit your head rather hard.” There was no need for her to continue, he’d rather not hear he was in a coma, that was already obvious to him.

“How long was I out?” Molly worried at her bottom lip.

“Well, you’re getting out of the leg cast tomorrow.” Sighing, she must have seen he was trying to do the math and it was only succeeding in giving him a headache. “Five weeks.”

  
“What have I missed?” Sitting up, he cleared his throat and investigated the contents of him side table.

“Not much.” Molly saw his struggle with the water pitcher and he knew she was debating over intervening or leaving him be. “Uh -- John, Anthea and I have been floating in and out --- Would---” She released a deep exhale. “Would you like me to help you with that?” With a bit of a grumble, he relented, his thirst was too great to argue over who would fill the glass. He began coughing, choking on the dryness of his mouth. It was as if the glands had forgotten what their job was. Finally retrieving the plastic cup from Molly, he drank greedily and was soon requesting a second. Molly obliged. “I’m going to fetch your doctor. He should look at you.”

  
                Sherlock barely nodded an acknowledgment of her words as he inhaled the sweet, simple liquid. Still wanting more to drink, Sherlock attempted, again to lift the pitcher and finally managed. He had no doubt that he could lift it now because of the loss of weight from the previous two cups.

  
                When the doctor finally came in, Sherlock could see his behavior surprised Molly; he was very compliant. Perhaps, it was the few times she had seen him receiving medical attention, he hadn’t exactly been on his best behavior then. It was no matter. He felt groggy and weak at the moment, so there wasn’t much energy left for him to be snippy or otherwise a bad patient.  
Luckily, everything appeared normal; nothing of note. Though he wasn’t thrilled about the tests that were to be run on him, he couldn’t imagine anyone would be excited about that.

  
“We were a bit worried when you first came in, Mr. Holmes.” The obnoxiously young doctor he’d seen before in, what he now knew, was an unconscious state. He thought perhaps the achingly annoying voice and demeanor had permeated through everything in order to amplify that, no matter what state of consciousness he was in, this doctor was going to drive him mad. “See, we thought you had a concussion, but they were just some contusions. It was hard to tell what might have put you in a coma.” The doctor laughed and Sherlock winced in response. “We’re still not completely sure, but we assume you just hit your head at the proper angle… we want to see if we can’t take a better look, now that your conscious. Your contusions have likely healed as well, or will soon.” Sherlock wasn’t sure why the level of enthusiasm rubbed him the wrong way, but it did. When the doctor finally dismissed himself, he couldn’t hide his relief. Molly smiled in response to his deep sigh and look of discontent.

  
“So, Molly--” He couldn’t remember feeling more uncomfortable talking to a girl since puberty. Sure, he had asked women questions of this nature before, but he wasn’t use to asking Molly personal questions. “What was that you were reading me?”

“Oh, um--” She fidgeted a bit as she retook her seat and clung to the notebook that she had retrieved from the chair next to her. “It's the first draft of a story I wrote…. it's not very good.. and I wasn’t sure how to end it.”

“I am certain I heard every word of it, I might argue it just needs a little more work… it's not bad at all.” He smiled at her as she blushed and stared down at her toes.

“Thank you.” The whisper was barely audible.

“I’m just not certain what it was about.”

“It was about lovers being separated after an accident. They both went to different dimensions; one where he existed but she didn’t...not as herself anyway, and the other was an alien environment.” He hummed an affirmative, assuring her he remembered; it’d sunk through.

“I remember that.”

“You do?”

“Purple grass?” They exchanged smiles, though Molly’s cheeks were turning a deeper pink.

“Did you think the ending sounded forced?” She asked, carefully.

“What part was the ending?”

“Well… where they dance off together.”

“Oh, right, where he says he loves her.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Molly’s squint.

“William never told Rose he loved her.” The author explained, confused. “I never gave him that line… his love is implied.”

“I see.” Flitting his eyes away from her to stare out the window, he continued. “Where did you get the idea?”

“Well, when Rose left Doctor Who, I always wondered if she would reunite with the Doctor she fell in love with, I mean, she had the meta-crisis Doctor --”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock shook his dark curls, clearing his head. “What?”

“Well, she was separated from the man she loved because she was in a different dimension for her own safety.” She shrugged. “The pathways had to be sealed off.”

“Ok.” With a nod a sigh, he implored her to continue.

“Well, I am a bit of a romantic --”

“Obviously.” Sherlock interrupted.

“Don’t be a git.” It was obvious that Molly’s patience was wearing thin.

“I wasn’t.” Her eyes dared him to deny it again. “I’m sorry, please, do go on.”

“Well, I just wanted to illustrate the hope I feel that, no matter what, people that deeply love each other reunite in the afterlife.”

“Dull.” The word was spoken flat and glib.

“It's not dull, it's sweet.” Stamping her foot, she stood. “I’m not basing it in religion or science, it's just a daydream I like to believe. I know that it's highly unlikely that we exist beyond this, but human beings are so complicated; don’t you think, for one second, there is a part of who we are that is immortal and indestructible?” Releasing an exasperated sigh, she leaned closer to him. “There’s no scientific evidence for or against the possibility of an afterlife and I’ve seen and experienced things that I do not care to share with you that make me believe it’s possible.” The look in her eyes told him he shouldn’t even think of arguing further and should just drop it. Perhaps it was as uneducated to blindly dismiss things of the supernatural as it was to follow belief systems that promoted it.In that case, both were rather silly.

  
“I’m sorry, Molly, I was just --”

“Just saying that entertaining the concept of love outlasting death is ‘dull’.” He said nothing in reply to this, to be fair he hadn’t had time. The sound of the door opening didn’t break their eye contact.

“Hey, I heard you were awake.” John chimed, excitedly. “How’s he doing?”

“Perfectly fine. Up an hour and he’s already acting like an arse.” Molly quipped, pulling on her jacket and grabbing her things. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wow. I wonder if that’s a record of any kind.”

“What is?”

“From five weeks in a coma to pissing Molly off. Very much a feat, getting her that angry in only sixty minutes.” Casually, John walked to the foot of Sherlock’s bed and picked up the medical chart. “And the doctor came in to give you an exam, too. I should shake your hand.” Sherlock grumbled.

  
“Do you think someone could fetch me my violin, I’d like to play it.”

“I’m not sure if that be a good idea, Sherlock, I mean, there are other patients here, ya know.”

“Would I be more destructive bored or playing my violin, John, your choice.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock.” John angrily dug in his pocket to retrieve a pack of playing cards. “Play Solitaire.”


	15. Deducing Sherlock

_**Months Later** _

  
            Sherlock sniffed at the corpse Molly had laid out on the cadaver table and glanced up at his older brother, raising his eyebrow and forcing the corners of his mouth to curl into an almost mischievous grin.

  
“It was definitely the mistress.” Mycroft let out a big heavy sigh as he nodded at his brother.

“I would tend to agree, but I’m glad the leg work and, I’m sure, great effort you put forth in this case brought you to the same conclusion.” The elder Holmes fiddled a bit with his umbrella.

“Please, Mycroft. Give him a sniff.” Clearly offended, Mycroft sneered.

“No need, brother dear, I believe you.” Molly Hooper cleared her throat behind the two brothers.

“Actually, I’m fairly certain I told you he would still have a faint scent to him and that it was the mistress.” Shaking her head, she stepped past both of them to prep the corpse to be returned to cold storage. “It’s not often a scent like that lasts, so I figured she’d been sneaking in.” As she struggled with the man nearly twice her size, she maintained enough control to cast a few daggers in the direction of Sherlock with her eyes. “You were the one that didn’t want to believe me.”

“Well--”

“Well, nothing, I knew she’d been sneaking in here and visiting out of guilt. All you have to do is confiscate the CCTV footage that proves it.” Obviously exhausted with the brothers at this point, she maintained her focus on Mr. Nitter and his transport back to his temporary resting place. “You know, if you would have just believed me, you wouldn’t be wasting so much time.”

  
“I never disbelieved you, Molly, I simply wanted to confirm.” The look on his face was genuine confusion as she rolled her eyes and pushed past him. It was clear to him he had done something ‘not good’, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“If you could maintain some inkling of dignity, Sherlock, I’d suggest you not chase her.” Mycroft whispered, once again playing with his umbrella, allowing it to roll on the side of its tip.

  
“Shut up.”

“Don’t be so obvious, brother mine, we’ve been here before.” Sherlock could feel the heat grow on his ears and his lower lip puffed out into a slight pout; he wasn’t trying to do anything but solve a case and was genuinely perplexed with the behavior of the other two. Before Sherlock could inquire, through deduction or otherwise, what Mycroft was alluding to, Molly interrupted them.

“So, did you need anything else?” His mouth opened, Sherlock attempted to speak, but Mycroft interrupted.

“That’s all, Dr. Hooper. Have a lovely evening.” Giving her whatever he could of a warm smile, he turned to his brother and cocked his head in the direction of the door, ushering him out. “You know,” Mycroft began, once they were in the safety of the morgues corridor.“She is seeing someone.” Few people but the elder Holmes could have caught the slight flash of despair and shock that came and went from Sherlock’s face as they made their way to the door. “It’s not serious, but it’s something you should keep in mind.” Sherlock said nothing, there was no reason to reply to Mycroft’s silly blatherings. “Oh, come now, Sherlock, you don’t think you’re that difficult for me to read, now, do you?”

  
             Pausing in the hall to gauge his younger brother’s reaction, Mycroft needed only a moment to gather what Sherlock what trying to hide. A smug look of satisfaction rested upon his face before they continued down the hall. “You know you couldn’t handle the distraction, Sherlock.” He shook his head,his brother was still defiant, looking forward and attempting to keep his face expressionless and stoic. “I suppose we both knew the day may come when you might consider trying your hand at it once again, I’m just surprised it’s a woman this time.”  
Mycroft was trying to dig into Sherlock and Sherlock was well aware by the way he chose his words. He was referring to Victor Trevor, a man Sherlock had attempted a relationship with in university. They both wanted different things, though, and Sherlock had ended up far worse for wear than any one would have expected. That preceded his first of three stints in rehab.

  
“It’s not like that.” Sherlock argued.

“Oh, no.” Turning to face his younger brother, Mycroft spun on his heels. “Then, tell me, why were you so insistent on trying to impress her? Oddly enough, with information she already gave you and, for that matter, why call on me? You didn’t need me here.”

“This was your case that you assigned me to.”

“Yes, but I had no need to go down to the morgue and view the body. You know that. So, tell me Sherlock, and be honest, why am I here?” There was a deafening silence in the hall as Sherlock swallowed hard, forcing his adam’s apple to bob in his throat. “Oh, I see.” Mycroft spoke, as though everything had just become clear to him.

“See what?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not! See what, Mycroft?” The elder fussed,tossing his head to the side and rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t it clear to you?” Sherlock's eyes squinted harder, angrily and Mycroft relented. “You know that you are developing feelings for Dr. Hooper and you want me to remind you that, to pursue her, would be foolish and ill advised. Well, fine, pursuing Molly Hooper is foolish and ill advised.” Closing his eyes tightly, he realized Mycroft was right. “Besides, you know better. You couldn’t handle the distraction, something would have to give and it was usually your sobriety so, if for no other reason than a favor to me, I beg of you, do not pursue Molly Hooper.” As he read Sherlock’s face, what stood out the most to him was the clear look of defiance, which simply made Mycroft more frustrated.

  
           With another great sigh and a mumbled curse, Mycroft shook his head again and continued down the hall. “You’re making a mistake, brother dear. You’ll regret it soon enough, though.” Pausing in the doorway that separated the morgue from the rainy streets of London, Mycroft opened his umbrella and glanced back at his brother. “Are you coming?” Sherlock simply shook his head. “Fine. Go make this mistake as soon as possible, but I’m telling you, you’re worlds apart in so many ways, Sherlock. Don’t do that to the poor girl, or to you.” The tone sounded a bit uncharacteristic of his brother, full of concern and a genuine plea, enough so for Sherlock to allow it to give him pause, but he still turned on his heels to head back down to the morgue they’d just left. Ignoring the calls of his brother, he picked up speed, never for a moment wondering what course of action Mycroft had chosen to take.

  
           When he finally made it to the heavy, swinging doors, he glanced through the windows to her, whispering into her cell phone. Clearly, she was enjoying the conversation, but trying to cut it short because she was at work. It was also evident to Sherlock that it was the gentleman she was seeing as of late and that Mycroft had deduced the existence of before him. Mycroft was right about everything he said, Sherlock was certain, after all, he even knew that Sherlock wanted him there to talk him out of what he was about to do long before he even acknowledged it himself.

  
          As he stood there, watching her, trying to peel herself the way from the phone and jump back into her work, he debated with himself again. After all, nothing about this situation was appealing to him in any way. His palms were sweaty, he felt like he couldn’t catch his breath, his mouth had gone dry and there was no calming his anxious stomach. He could feel it twisted in knots and folding over itself, threatening to jennison anything within it.

  
                   Dying had been a more pleasant experience than this.

  
                 Before he could fight his flirting with the irrational for a moment longer, he forced himself to burst through the doors. The unintentional side effect, of course, was frightening Molly. Her scream echoed against the walls as she grabbed a surgical knife from the table and whirled around to face him.

  
“Christ, Sherlock.” She swore, slamming the knife back down. “No, no, Connor, it’s fine. Just one of my coworkers burst in and scared me half to death.” Tapping her foot, she frowned at Sherlock. “No, they were just having a go at me for being on my mobile. I’ll ring you later.” A brief giggle and, finally, she had disconnected the call. Turning off her phone, she slipped it into her pocket and met Sherlock’s gaze. “Change your mind?” Molly tried to smile. “What do you need now?”

  
“Nothing.” He faintly stuttered, as she replaced the surgical kit she had touched, her back to him.

“Nothing?” Molly snickered, she knew he was up to something. “Then, what was all that about? Just trying to get me off the phone?”

“No, that’s not it.” Of all the moments for word to fail it, it didn’t surprise him it was now and hated every moment, feeling the heat in his ears rise and knowing they must have been an undeniable scarlet shade by now.

  
“Well, then” Molly Hooper, as always, reminded him she was his equal in many ways as she met him, toe to toe, and still managed to stare him down despite the height difference. He swallowed hard.

“I was just --- wondering if --- we could have dinner sometime?” Finally, it was out. The relief didn’t last long, though, because now, it was replaced with another heavy tension as he realized he couldn’t read her face.


	16. Like Vikings

           For Sherlock, it certainly felt like forever that they stood in silence in the morgue; nothing but the gentle buzz of the equipment. He wondering what it meant and why it was taking so long. Is this how things worked when one person asked another out? Should he say something? Should he leave? What was that look on her face? The tight knot in his stomach pulled taunt as he caught his breath and wondering how long it was appropriate to hold each other's gaze. Certainly, at some point, this would have to end.

  
“A date?” She finally spoke, still quizzical and clutching at her folders.

“Yes.” It was hard to tell when, but his mouth had gone dry.

“With you?” Eyes wide and brow furrowed, her skepticism was obvious.

“Yes.”

“You are actually asking me out on a date.”

“Yes.”

“And calling it a date?” Sherlock seemed to be fighting the urge to shrink and her questions, his ears burning as they painted themselves crimson.

“Yes?”

“What for?”

“Is- Isn’t that what people do?” The second bout of silence was a lot shorter, broken by Molly collapsing into tears and laughs.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I just---” Finally composing herself, she cleared her throat and continued. “If you need me to help on a case, just say it.”

“It’s not for a case.”

“Well-- then, why would --” Realization swept over her features and her mouth fell agape. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock… I thought that you were kidding.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” Color was burning into his ears and the embarrassment forced his eyes downcast.

“I thought maybe Janine wasn’t available or you were lying… are you lying?” Shifting her weight toward him, she examined his face, exploring every inch of it for an answer.

“It’s not like that this time.”

“Well, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

“Then, what is this?”

“I genuinely want to date you.”

“No, you don’t.” She turned in a huff to leave the room.

“What’s your middle name, Molly?” The voice was even and clear, but a twinge of pain diluted it noticeably, forcing her to stop in her tracks. She didn’t turn around to face him, though.

“You know my middle name.”

“Just say it.” With a deep, heavy sigh, she closed her eyes tight and turned to face him, knowing what this was about; he seemed to remember everything.

“Rose.”

“And my first name is William.” His breath hitched as they met each other’s eyes. “Your story was about us.”

“No.”

“I saw the entire thing play out like a movie in my head.”

“You’re being silly.”

“You still love me.”

“No!” Digging her fists into her hips, she realized the lie could easily be read on her face and relented. “Of course, I still love you, Sherlock.” Solemnly, she shook her head. “But, you know you can’t love me like I need and deserve.”

“But -- why can’t I try?”

“Sherlock--”

“I’m serious. We are not worlds apart, Molly.” Elegantly, he slid across the floor and took her hands. His eyes staring deep into hers, he grasped at her. “I’m right here, Molly. I’m not in some other dimension or -- or on some other plane… I’m right here.” He insisted.

“Sherlock.” The pleading in her voice made his heart stop, seeing the look of sympathy of her face. “I am happy being friends. It took me a long while to get there, but I am content.” His lip must have been pouting because she insisted he not. “Don’t pout, now, nothing sad about this. It’s fine.” She smiled. “It’s really, truly fine.” Taking another deep breath she added. “Besides, I have a boyfriend.” With a nod and a small smile, he let her lie to him. It wasn’t worth the fight at all at this point. Releasing her hands, he felt an ache in his chest he hadn’t felt for as long as he could remember.

“You’re right.” His lips forced themselves into a fake smile. “I don’t know what got into me. Just...being silly, I guess.”

“Well, we all do silly things.” The smile she offered was also fake, but far more reassuring.

“I suppose we do.”

 

 

* * *

 

“It’s not funny, John.” He whined, tossing his head back with a groan. “You can stop laughing anytime now.”

“No, it’s just… you want Molly now that she’s moved on --”

“She hasn’t moved on.”

“She’s committed to moving on and you come in and just...well, you just make a mess of things.” Passing Sherlock his coffee, he lead the way to a table in the back. “I mean, you have bloody awful timing.”

“Shut up.” John snickered again, dropping into the chair in the corner.

“I’m just saying, you better really be sure because, otherwise, it’s just not fair to Molly.”

“I am sure, John. When have you known me to ask you for advice on courtship rituals?”

“Right. Well, first off, don’t call it courtship.”

“Why not?”

“It’s outdated and a little weird.” John wrinkled his nose. “*If*” he emphasized the word “you are going to pursue Molly, you need to make a grand romantic gesture.”

“Like what?” It wasn’t often John saw that look of utter confusion on his face, but when it did, it normally involved conversations about social interaction.

“Well, like movies and tv shows… Jane Austen, Bridget Jones Diary, television shows with followings and ships.”

“Ships? Like vikings?”

“No...What?” Leaning back and away, his face scrunched up as if squinting would make Sherlock's thought process more clear. “On social media sites like tumblr, people pick characters that they like together romantically and write fanfiction of them. Shows like The X Files, Friends and movies like Star Wars…. they all have followings.” Seeing the gears working in Sherlock’s head as his eyes drifted away, he quickly added. “But, please call me before you try to use any of the ideas.” Obviously not listening, Sherlock hummed an affirmative and got up, leaving without saying goodbye. John was left alone to debate whether he should warn Molly or not. As a compromise, he chose, instead, to alert his wife of the developments with a few text messages.


	17. Something Different

“I’m in the mood for something different.” Molly’s voice chimed above the sound of her pouring water from the kettle into the mugs. “So, I’m having apple cinnamon tea, what would you like?”

  
“I’m not picky, just make me the same.” Flipping through a fashion magazine Molly had lying around, Mary adjusted in the kitchen chair, not looking up as her host brought over their tea and biscuits. “Who dressed her?” The blonde wrinkled her nose as she examined photo’s of an actress deep in the pages of the magazine. “Good god.” Molly couldn’t help but laugh, the clothing wasn’t very complimentary to the models body at all. Realizing Molly had joined her at the table, though, she happily dismissed the rag with a deep sigh. “Now, tell me about this bloke you’ve been seeing?” A gentle giggle released Molly’s lips as she sipped at her tea.

“Well, he’s kind, a good height... wide chest…” Her eyes darted about, seeking out words for her.

“You don’t like him?” Asserted her guest, shake her head gently.

“I like him!” Molly insisted, affronted. Raising an eyebrow, Mary sat back.

“Than go on, tell me more.”

“He has brown hair and eyes… he volunteers with animals, likes children.” By now, it was obvious Mary was bursting at the seams, but she proceeded calmly.

“You think he’s boring.” She smiled, watching Molly’s face drop. “Oh, come now. You don’t even light up when you talk about him.”

“Maybe he is boring, so what?” Defensively, Molly wrapped an arm around her chest.

“And he’s safe.” Mary insisted, undeterred.

“Safe is good.”

“Safe is dull.” Matter-of-factly, Mary sipped at her tea, waiting for Molly to find her words.

“I like safe.” The gentle clatter of Molly’s mug being placed on the table a little too hard revealed how irritated she was becoming with the conversation.

“Since when?” Mary pushed.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just being honest, Molly.” Leaning over the table, she placed her elbow on the table to better point at Molly. “You are not going to be happy with safe and you’re not going to be pleased with boring. You’re a pathologist with purple toe nails and black lace undergarments, safe isn’t you.” She blew away some steam. “You’ve maintained your femininity in a male dominated field and never apologized for it in any way and that’s just what we see, I’m fairly certain you’ve never done the safe thing.”

“Maybe I want to now.” Mary bit her tongue at Molly’s indignance and reached for her vibrating cell phone.

“It’s John….” A smile slowly spread across her lips. “Sherlock asked you out?”

“How does John know?”

“Apparently, Sherlock asked John’s advice….” Unable to hold back her laughter, Mary threw her head back to fully release a cackle. “He wants me to warn you.”

“Warn me about what?”

“He’s trying to woo you, Dr. Hooper.” Molly scrunched her nose and shook her head.

“Sherlock just wants something.” Sighing, she picked up a biscuit and broke it in half. “I mean, I’m sort of cross with him for even asking.” Her body was tensing, revealing her discomfort as she nibbled at her snack. “Look at what he did to Janine.”

“But, you’re not Janine.”

“But Janine did nothing wrong.” With a shrug, Mary adjusted once again in her seat.

“He never asked for advice on Janine.” Self satisfied with her assertion, Mary rewarded herself with a biscuit.

“It would be nice if Sherlock liked me like that, but even if he did, we’re from two different planets.” Sighing, Molly lay back her seat and began twiddling her thumbs, eyes downcast.

“No, you’re not.” Cautiously, she raised her eyes to meet Mary’s, she was very insistent. “You’re both from Earth and you’re both human and you both bleed, so stop this.”

“Mary, I --”

“Do you want to be with him?” Molly was avoiding her point, Mary needed to be more adamant.

“Sure, but --”

“No ‘but’, just yes or no. Do you want to be with Sherlock?”

“What if he’s playing another one of his games and is only going to hurt me? At least I know that Connor isn’t going to hurt me.”

“Well, I suppose it’s easier to be in a relationship with someone you’re less emotionally invested in.” Mary shrugged, her point made and Molly was utterly speechless. “I wonder if the research John said Sherlock was doing is a good thing or not.”

 

 

* * *

 

               Staring at his computer screen, the dampness on his cheek startled Sherlock; he hadn’t expected to have such a reaction to any of the movies he was watching, but he supposed the after ten gruelling hours of research into romantic media favored by the female of his species he had grown tired enough to lose some control over his emotions.

  
             They did say that not sleeping for a certain amount of time can have an effect similar to alcohol. Given he wasn’t doing anything physical, he assumed, it was harder to fight his body’s reaction to the stress.

  
                  All he knew at that moment was that “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” was, somehow, the best movie he’d ever seen and he wanted to call his mother and tell her he loved her.


	18. Big Romantic Gesture

             Molly knew Connor could tell she was distracted by the tone of his voice in the background. As she pushed her peas around her plate, fighting to stay focused on his words, her mind kept running away with her. She couldn’t help it. Part of the reason she had such complicated feelings for Sherlock was how alien he was; how unique to anyone else she had ever met he was. Collin, meanwhile, was like any other man she’d ever met; nice and smart… but dull and content with their mundane life. Expected her to become a mother, which she wasn’t opposed to; a few had even assumed she would quit her own job.

  
“Molly?” He had finally broken down and acknowledged how distant she was; it was like finally being pulled into the atmosphere from space.

“Yes?” Blinking, she forced a small smile on her face.

“Something wrong?” There weren’t any good options aside from lying; slowly she shook her head and gave him a confused stare. “You just -- I dunno, seem… like something’s bothering you.”

              What could she say here? The truth was she was thinking about how good of a person he was to her, but how much he bored her. She could also tell him her stomach had been in knots since early this afternoon when she’d learned that Sherlock Holmes may be gearing up to woo her. Whatever was met by that. There were really no good answers.

  
“I’m just tired from work.” Another soft smile painted her lips as she watched his face go pale. He hated her job, and any moment now he would change the subject.

“Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to let you sleep tonight.” he teased, quietly, and they shared a laugh. “I started a new book today, I was wondering if you’ve read it yet --”

“Collin, what are we?” She blurted out, interrupted him without regret. Collin sputtered a bit, searching an answer, nervous and confused, obviously.

“Well, I very much thought you were my girl.”

“Your girl?”

“Yes… well, woman.” He emphasized woman, as if it wasn’t any stranger in the context of the conversation. “I mean, I thought we were… ya know?”

“Monogamous?” She asked.

“Well, yes, I mean… women don’t typically date around like men do so I assumed when we continued to see each other --”

“Women do so tend to date if they please. There’s nothing saying we can’t and, frankly, more of us should.” It was clear to her that he wasn’t the type of man she’d thought he was just moments ago.

“Well, I meant it… women choose not to… I mean, once they got a bloke, they pretty much reel him in from there and seal the deal, as it were.” He chuckled, make a gesture that appeared to be a mimic of putting on a ring. Molly couldn’t help feeling a bit offended; she knew she wanted a partner and getting married would be nice, but it wasn’t necessary for her. Her feelings for Tom had been genuine, but she’d been in no hurry to marry, the assumption that she was some huntress attempting to ensnare an unsuspecting man was infuriating to her. Tom proposed because he had genuinely wanted to marry her; not because he thought it was what she wanted. Molly took a long, deep gulp of wine before meeting his eyes, again.

  
“So, you think I went dredging the ocean for men and you were just simply the only one I snared?” He seem bewildered, as if his assumptions shouldn’t have blindsided her at all. Clearly, Collin accepted these things as facts.

“Well, I mean, all girls want to get married, don’t they?” He shrugged.

“No, not all girls want to married.” The more she straightened her back and leaned forward, the more he seemed to shrink. “I mean, the ceremony and the legalities aren’t as important as finding someone to spend my life with. Of course, I’d love to wear the fluffy gown and walk down the aisle, but if you think I’d be heartbroken or lose sleep that some man didn’t ask me to take his name, you’d be sorely mistaken.” Collin stuttered for a bit; searching for an apology or an explanation, neither of which she wanted to hear. “I’ve no idea what planet you’re from, but here, men and women are equals and it’s wrong to just assume another person's wants or needs based on their gender.” Throwing her hands up, she stood up from her chair and grabbed her purse. “You’re not the type of person that I want to spend my life with, Collin. I’m sorry if it hurts you, but I’m not going to play pretend and act like I have no independent and unique thoughts in my head. I hope you have a nice life and find someone that makes you happy.” With that, she left the restaurant; certain he was still trying to find his bearings. That was no matter though. He’d survive and so would she.

  
          It would be a lie to say she didn’t feel deflated, though, it wasn’t the falling in love she enjoyed as much as the security in an established relationship. The taxi ride back home was quiet and uneventful, she was sad, but ready to bathe and snuggle up with her cat to watch a movie. Or at least she was until she saw it….

  
                 She thought, perhaps, he eyes were deceiving her and she was simply tired. They could have been reflections in her window but, alas, they were not. Molly wasn’t sure how she felt about what she was seeing. Obviously, much thought, time, and money was put into this but there was so much shock, she wasn’t certain what she felt below that.

  
              Upon finally opening her door, she was greeted by exactly who she expect. An unusually nervous and exhausted looking Sherlock surrounded by white flowers.

  
“Hello.” Sherlock barely mustered.

“Did you fill my flat with flowers?” She asked, flatly.

“Yes.” His tone was just as emotionless as hers.

“Why?”

“Because candles are a fire hazard.” Finally, Molly’s expression changed, wrinkling into a questioning look. “Well, Chandler used candles and Max used flowers. I mean, they were both proposing, but I suppose in a sense, I am, too.”

“Chandler who?”

“Bing.”

            With that, Molly collapsed into a fit of giggles. As she fell to her knees and gripped her stomach with one arm, she grabbed his coat with another. “From ‘Friends’?” She asked, in a high pitch voice, holding back further laughter.

  
“Yes.” The poor man looked genuinely confused, but Molly couldn’t stop laughing at the thought of him watching a single episode of ‘Friends’ to begin with. “And… ummm… Max who?”

“Max Medina… from ‘Gilmore Girls’.” The guilt was over run with pure, ecstatic laughter. Not only had he watched ‘Friends, but he’d also watched ‘Gilmore Girls’. After a few snorts, she let go of his jacket and offered her hand.

“Would you help me up?” She asked, staring up at him through blurry eyes. Sherlock obliged and brought her to her feet, where she leaned on him for a bit. “Why?”

“Why what, Molly?” From such a close vantage point, she could see the dark circles around his eyes.

“Why did you fill my house with flowers?”

“Big romantic gesture.” He murmured, blinking blankly. “I just --- didn’t want you to say ‘no’ unless you meant it. We’re -- we’re not in different worlds like William and Rose, Molly…. I’m right here. I don’t know what made you think we could never be as we are because… I’ve always loved you, Molly.” The redness of his eyes were amplified by the lamplight. “I know how William felt in your story, I know, because I was him… I thought it was real. I thought you were gone.” If she didn’t know better, she could swear a small tear was forming in his tear duct. “I felt so hopeless and I never want you to leave me. Please…”

             She couldn’t let him finish, this was no act. The man before her had lived her story and found it a terrible and real experience, she could feel in his fingertips as he clung to her how desperate he was to be with her and love her the way she wanted. Though she knew they truly were worlds apart, she also knew that didn’t have to mean they weren’t on the same wavelength and out of sync. They were going to love each other closer and through it all. For now though, they both needed a nap, which was exactly what had brought them together in the first place.


End file.
